The Enemy of My Enemy
by Katsuhiro
Summary: "Of all the conflicts recorded in the latter stages of the Human-Covenant War, perhaps one of the most interesting was that which occured on the Outer Colony Crassus, c.Nov.2552. Interesting, and with an entirely unexpected outcome.." ONI Case-File 428/
1. Prologue: Welcome to Crassus

Sand. It's everywhere on the planet Crassus.

Long, billowing towers of dust roll in from the west; an inexorable tide of cloying, choking grit. A twisting network of jagged ravines spiders its way across the surface of the planet, hewn from millennia of exposure to the planet's savage winds.

Between these canyons, landmarks are few and far between, relegated to the occasional clump of withered foliage and prickly cacti; rendered all but blotchy smears when viewed from the cloudless sky above. As the pelican drop-ship's shadow sweeps across the golden desert floor, such land-marks are quickly forgotten. Flight Officer Perry's voice is weary as he keys the com once more.

"Oscar Three-Two, this is Kilo-Six-Four, call-sign Warmonger. Do you copy, over?"

Only static answers him.

Perry rolled the lander to port, broadcasting his transmission one last time. No response. He sighs and cranes his neck around to glance at the empty row of seats behind him. A few hours earlier, they had all been full; teeming with the very men Warmonger had been tasked to retrieve. The hold seemed cavernous now. _Like a tomb, _Perry grimaced.

Frustrated, and more than a little bit spooked, Perry opened a new channel.

"This is Warmonger to Control, nobody's out here. Not a damn whisper and I am bingo on fuel, over."

"Roger Warmonger," Control's response crackled, "RTB for debrief."

"Ten-Four, confirm-RTB, out."

As the pelican veered off and away into the distance, the dust-storm swelled to an outright howl. Layers of sand begin to peel away, revealing scorched and blackened wreckage. Here, the crumpled husk of a Scorpion Main Battle Tank lies upended, its turret snapped neatly in half. Here, a trio of warthogs, gutted by plasma-fire. Corpses, shrivelled by the endless heat, sprawl baking where they fell.

The storm wails on, undaunted. Just as quickly as it is unveiled, the carnage is buried once more. The sands of Crassus care little for this brutal conflict. On the planet's time-scale, it registers as less than a heartbeat. It is trivial, insignificant. To the UNSC forces stationed on Crassus, however, it is something else entirely.

It is a taste of things to come.


	2. A Soldier's Despair

"Kilo-Six-Four has touched down and is en-route for debrief, Sir." Second Lieutenant Brambley reported smartly.

Major Gregor Abelev wasn't listening. Indeed, he was ignoring the junior officer entirely. Slumped in his high-backed leather chair, the swarthy, hulking brute seemed fully intent on staring into space. A tapestry of crumpled coffee cups, discarded data-pads and over spilling ashtrays littered the desk in front of him. It looked like the remains of a battlefield. Abelev probably would have appreciated the analogy, were he capable of caring anymore.

Brambley frowned, and - tentatively - tried again.

"Uh, Major, Kilo-Six-"

"I heard you the first time." Abelev grunted. "That'll be all, son."

"Sir." Brambley snapped a tight salute. Abelev's own was casual, almost an after-thought. Brambley was well versed in masking his disdain, however, and left without another word. He had better things to do.

Abelev was miserable. He was a good soldier, a proud soldier, but the writing was on the wall. He'd been at Harvest, he'd fought Covenant forces in no less than four separate engagements - and survived. The jagged scars which twisted the edge of his mouth into a wicked grimace were testament to the fact that he very nearly didn't. He had never asked for it, but they had given him medals and acclaim. Not that he gave a damn, of course, but the gesture was nice.

But now where was he? Stuck here, marooned on a no-bit colony while the rest of the galaxy burned. There was no fleet left to pluck him from obscurity and let him do his job - a job he loved. And so he sat, and smoked, and - when Brambley wasn't around to cluck his tongue - he drank. Heavily.

He turned and spared a glance out of the control tower's viewport, his morose, blood-shot eyes taking in the skeletal remains of the UNSC_ Anchises_. It was the ship that had brought him and his men here, and it taunted him every day; providing false hopes of possible escape.

Abelev had managed to prevent the colonists from gutting it entirely for all of six weeks before finally relenting. Supplies were low, and with the rest of the galaxy occupies with the unfortunate business of being eradicated, the chances of Crassus receiving proper re-supply were practically non-existent.

Abelev snorted in amusement as he reached for the bottle of whiskey secreted away beneath his desk. The _Anchises_ had heroically survived over three days of sustained combat in both the Battle of Sigma Octanus IV and Reach, only to be finished in a matter of hours by a swarm of resource-hungry colonists.

"Such is the fate of true heroism," he toasted, swigging from the bottle.

In more peaceful times, such measures would not have been necessary. If anything, it would have been tantamount to treason. Since the beginning of the Human-Covenant war, Horizon, Crassus' only city, had been content to sit tight and mind its own business, hoping to remain the obscure little colony it was. All but forgotten on the very rim of UNSC territory, their isolation was their greatest defence. To date, it had performed magnificently.

Until now. Now they were at alert, and with the second disappearance of a long range patrol in as many weeks, the city was prepping itself for war, in whatever meagre way it could. After all these nervous months of listening to wide-band despatches, eaves-dropping on the death of their own species, the war had finally come to Crassus.

Realising that help was not coming, and that the possibility of rejoining the defence of the Inner Colonies was nothing but a childish fantasy, Abelev had accepted his fate, and allowed them to strip the ship down to its very bones. With the ship's captain having been killed at Reach, there had been few objections. The major turned his attention to gaze at the bustling city beyond the reaches of the starport. It was for the good of the colony, Abelev told himself. It was the right thing to do. He took another swig.

_But if that was true… then why did he feel so miserable?_


	3. A Warrior's Defiance

Thousands of miles above the planet's atmosphere, all was still. The stars shone softly, as they had done for centuries. Crassus, just a sphere of glittering gold brindled with murky brown, seemed so tranquil.

Suddenly, the universe above the planet ripped apart in a vibrant crackle of blue incandescent energy. There was a flash, then a pulsing flare. Ripping through this gaping rift ploughed the sloping prow of a Covenant Cruiser, the _Pride of Sanghelios_. Its hull was battered and scored with deep, simmering burns. The ship was alight in several places.

It was not alone. Closely following it was a second, larger vessel; though not as sleek as the first craft, what it lacked in speed, it more than made up in sheer bulk. The Covenant Assault Carrier _Implacable Duty_ glided hungrily after the _Sanghelios_, powering forward with murderous intent. Almost instantaneously its forward batteries began to open up, lancing out toward the rear of the _Sanghelios_. The smaller cruiser's shields flared, flickered, and then died altogether. There was a disquieting rumbling sound, and the _Sanghelios' _weapon systems fell abruptly silent.

"Shields down!" announced one of the Sangheili manning a side display, his fingers dancing across the controls, "Weapon systems are offline, Shipmaster!"

The situation was beyond grim. The lighting on the bridge pulsed erratically, and for a moment it looked as though the cruiser might lose power completely. Shipmaster Vtan 'Arume had earned command of this vessel twelve long cycles ago, through trial by single-combat. It had been his greatest hour, to be remembered in his family's battle poems for generations to come. Another explosion rocked the bridge. Now that time was at an end.

Vtan dug his talons deep into the rests of his command throne in silent rage, but his voice remained steady, resolute. He had little choice. To show nothing less than total concentration, even in the face of this dire situation, would doom them all.

"Engine status?" he enquired smoothly.

"Holding, Shipmaster. We have restored shields, by-" A warble of static flooded the Battle-Net for a moment, "-but for how long, I cannot estimate."

Vtan cast an eye about the bridge. It was beginning to flood with smoke. Several of the Sangheili manning their stations had already fallen prey to malfunctioning consoles as the ship's systems overloaded.

They had barely made it to Slipspace, such was the immediate-fury of the Jiralhanae betrayal. Now, here in this unknown system, the _Sanghelios_ - the sum of his life's work - was finished. Here, they would be defeated, without incident, and without vengeance. Where his career had begun with glorious triumph, here, it would end with naught but a whimper, a tiny footnote in some inglorious history tome. Vtan's eyelids narrowed to slits.

_Unless…_

"Divert full power from our engines, and reroute everything to the rear shields on my mark!" barked the Shipmaster, "I will not see us run down without a fight!"

"But Shipmaster... our weapon systems have failed: we barely survived the transition from Slipspace!" protested the helmsman. "We have no other means with which to combat the enemy!"

"Silence!" Vtan bellowed, hammering his clenched fist against the seat rest, "We still have our honour and our own two hands! In the name of our forefathers, I shall visit pain upon those who would betray us, even if it requires me climbing aboard their vessel and un-seaming their entrails in person! Now do as I say, helmsman, and do not hesitate!"

There was a pause. Seldom did Vtan lose his temper. Calmer now, the Shipmaster took this time to key the Battle Net, issuing one final instruction. Behind his sloping ivory faceplate, Vtan's mandibles twitched in the Sangheili approximation of a smile.

"Brothers, brace for impact."


	4. A Hunter's Overconfidence

Aboard the larger carrier, Shipmaster Torikus, High-Chieftain of the _Implacable Duty, _Faithful Servant of the Hierarchs, rubbed his meaty paws together in anticipation at the view screen before him.

Their prey was trailing long streamers of flame in its wake. Its weapon systems had failed, leaving it all but helpless. The best it could do was limp, lamely, away from Torikus's mighty warship; only delaying the inevitable.

It was this moment of the hunt that he enjoyed most: that sacred moment before the kill, when his weapon was raised, and he could taste the bloodlust on his very breath. It was time to deliver the killing blow.

Torikus had already been denied this moment far too long. The Sangheili were loathsome runts; lacking the purity of the Jiralhanae's might, but they had defied his pursuit admirably. Torikus respected their stubborn determination, if nothing else. Still, it was time to finish this. He motioned to the Jiralhanae manning the weapons station.

"Bralterakus, hold your fire." Torikus began, leaning back in his command throne with relish. He would savour this victory. "Communications, open a channel with the enemy vessel. Ask if they have any final words to impart with us prior to their leaving this galaxy."

"Your will be done, Shipmaster…" Parakh, the communications officer paused, then frowned, "Chieftain, there is already an encoded message incoming from our prey… addressed to you personally…"

Bralterakus, a silver-flecked senior manning the weapons station, snorted in raucous amusement, "Perhaps the heretical vermin wish to repent!"

A wave of snide laughter rippled across the bridge. Bralterakus had always been popular with the pack. It would be wise to kill him soon, Torikus noted. Eager to re-assert his authority, Torikus raised his voice and barked over the cackling of his crew.

"Then we shall allow them to beg, before we deny them passage on the Great Journey." Torikus bared his fangs eagerly, amber eyes glittering. "Read it."

Parakh's brow rippled in confusion as his eyes digested the contents of the message. Torikus leaned forward, displeased with the hesitation.

"Shipmaster…" Parakh trailed off, his voice perplexed.

"Well, what did they say?" The High-Chieftain hissed impatiently. "Out with it!"

Parakh's brow remained knotted, "Message reads: 'Well met, Slaves of the False-Prophets. Send our regards to the High Council.' Message ends…"

Parakh twisted about and stared blankly at the High-Chieftain.

"…Shipmaster, what does it mean?"

An unsettling jolt ran shivers up along the fur of Torikus' spine. His hairs stood on end. Torikus had seldom encountered this feeling before. It was strange, alien. It was the feeling of a hunt gone wrong; of a hunter becoming the prey. He eyed the view-screen closely. The _Sanghelios_ seemed puny, insignificant: its weapons were silent, its engines all but crippled. Surely such a lame vessel could pose no threat, not to the _Implacable_! If anything, the _Sanghelios_ had stopped moving entirely.

The realisation struck Torikus like a Gravity Hammer. By then, it was too late.

"Reinforce the forward-"

Torikus's bellow was drowned out as the _Pride of Sanghelios_ ploughed engines-first into the mouth of the _Implacable Duty_. The _Implacable's_ shield buckled under the immense impact instantly. There was an awful crunching sound, as the super-heated engines chewed deeply into the Carrier's front hull. Multiple hull breaches exploded across the surface of the _Implacable's_ prow, its superstructure compacting against the lighter cruiser with an aching groan.

Then one of the _Sanghelios'_ engines detonated.

The explosion was catastrophic. Fully a third of the _Sanghelios_ was obliterated outright. Hundreds on both vessels were vaporised in an instant. Those were the most fortunate. Dozens more fell prey to hull breaches as the rest of the ship peeled away. Unggoy, thrashing and shrieking, were ripped out into the cold void, their ruptured methane tanks spinning them off into freezing oblivion. Radiation, unleashed in the wake of the devastation visited upon the engine core, swept through the lower decks of the _Sanghelios_ like a cancer, irradiating every crew member therein. Those that did not die instantly would succumb over the next few weeks, subject to a cruel and pitiless fate.

The _Implacable_, despite its superior tonnage and condition, fared no better. With its weapon systems still powered up, and its plasma batteries already on the brink of overheating, the carrier was racked with a violent chain reaction of internal explosions which arced across the sides of the ship. Exposed to the full brunt of the _Sanghelios'_ engine detonation, large sections of the _Implacable's_ frontal superstructure ignited and began to burn from within. Fire scoured through the forward decks.

High-Chieftain Torikus ordered all emergency hatches sealed, content to let those trapped within die so that the rest of the ship might live. It was a decision as inspired as it was ruthless. Indeed, some said later that the Chieftain even allowed himself a smile when issuing the order. For days afterward, the immolated corpses of Jiralhanae choked the corridors. Still, the flames were contained. Torikus' leadership, though mercilessly cruel, had saved the ship. Twice, the stricken _Implacable_ had to switch to emergency power, before eventually, twenty minutes later, it managed to restore itself to a relatively stable orbit above the planet.

Meanwhile, the remainder of the _Pride of Sanghelios_, dragging with it a long plume of azure fire, hurtled toward Crassus in a graceless spin.


	5. Eye of the Beholder

Ironically, the city of Horizon, once romantically labelled by the UNSC's Expansion Corps as the "_Furthest Frontier of Mankind_", did not make for a particularly inviting sight.

Like most of the Outer Colonies, the city's design emphasised functionality over visual-aesthetic. Within the sand-blasted perimeter walls sprawled a jumbled labyrinth of air-processing plants, steel gantries and skeletal refineries. Dust caked everything a ruddy orange-brown. Bulky ventilators clustered on each and every rooftop, like spines on a concrete dinosaur, humming and thrumming as they laboured to keep the streets clean of grit.

With the current storm washing over Horizon, most of the processors had already died a wheezing death. Filtration crews scurried to and fro, clad in vibrant yellow environmental suits, burdened with the unenviable task of trying to prevent the city from choking entirely. To their relief, the storm was beginning to die down.

Around each of the buildings snaked a series of thick pipelines, carrying fuel, wiring and - most crucially - the city's water supply. Above, a complex rail network wove its way around the city, bathing the streets beneath it in almost perpetual shadow. Freight cars trundled about almost constantly. Though noisy, the shade cast by the track provided welcome respite from the ever-burning sun. With a population of just under two million colonists, most of them hardened terraformers, it served as a practical place for practical people.

And Sarah Jennings _hated_ it.

She _hated_ the recycled water, she _hated_ the heat, she _hated_ the dust, and the noise of the cargo trains. She _hated_ the way there was no rain and - most of all - she _hated_ the way Mom had to work all the time. At eight years of age, Sarah was distressingly well versed at hating things. In fact, the only talent she had which eclipsed this was her voracious ability to write lists. Unfortunately, the evolution of this habit - naturally - was to make lists about the things she hated. These were extensive.

She was doing this right now. Nestled underneath the shelter of a wind-slapped water tower, shrouded in the thick folds of Daddy's old environmental suit, she hummed to herself peacefully. The sound muffled oddly within the confines of the rubbery hood. This was her favourite spot. Here, she could sit, just at the edge of the starport's landing strip, and watch the soldiers' ships sitting neatly in a row. She liked the open space, and the big tower building, and the sound the ships made when they took off. She already had several nice lists about it.

Most of all, however, Sarah liked looking at remains of the big ship - the one Mom had called a _Frigate Ank-eye-sus_ - and dream about going on wild adventures across the galaxy. Maybe someday she would even find Daddy again.

Sarah shook herself. She had work to do, lists to make. Squinting through her thick goggles, she took a deep, solemn breath and inscribed a big meaty "1" on the top of her notepad. The crayon was a deep red, satisfyingly thick. Sarah frowned, intently considering her next move.

Where to start? No, not the sand, that was _too _obvious. The dust? Hmm, no, that's too easy too. Although the dust _did_ make her eyes water… but the storm seemed to be easing off.. and...

Abruptly, she stopped scrawling. Something was going on. She wasn't sure what it was. Certainly, she couldn't put her finger on it. Not at first. She looked around, straining her ears. Ah, that was it, she smiled, tremendously pleased with herself for having identified what it was.

It was a sound. Not like the constant _vum-vum-vum_ sound of the filters, or the rickety _chug-chug-chug _of the train. No, it was something deeper than just a sound. You didn't just hear it; you _felt_ it too, like a rumbling in your tummy. That was it: a really deep _rumbling._ Curious, Sarah pulled herself up to her feet, and ambled over to the edge of the water tower's shadow. Ducking under the support struts, she risked stepping out into the open air. Sarah looked up, and gasped.

The sky was on fire.

To her, it was beautiful. A graceful, glistening comet of blue fire and oily purple, of sooty smoke and sound and thunder. Transfixed, Sarah tottered backward, tripped, and unceremoniously fell on her rump. She could not tear her eyes away. Despite the wicked winds which still vented down the streets, people began to poke their heads out from triple-glazed windows. Being older than Sarah, and more versed in the universe in which grown-ups lived, they began whispering amongst themselves. Being grown-ups, they did not share Sarah's sense of wonderment.

Like a ripple in a pool of water, the whispering spread. It was a hushed sound, full of tension and excitement. And fear. Many began murmuring long-forgotten prayers from long-forgotten faiths, quietly hoping, no, praying it was all just an illusion. In the distance, klaxons began to wail. Sarah, oblivious to the terror that gripped the city around her, smiled. She sat down, opened a new page on her notebook, titled it "Things I like", and began to sketch the comet in the sky with earnest.

To her, Crassus had finally become interesting.


	6. Preparations

Flight Officer David Perry had been waiting for almost an hour before he realised nobody was coming to debrief him.

The short flight officer was perched atop one of the Navy's standard issue chairs, furniture which seemed to be specifically designed to render your standard issue buttocks devoid of any feeling. Perry privately wondered if it was all an obscure test of some kind, designed by some particularly sadistic ONI Scientist.

Then chaos erupted. Further up the corridor, the major's door exploded open, and Major Abelev stalking up the corridor, roaring an endless stream of instructions into his com-link. His blood-shot expression was even more haggard than usual, but he seemed tremendously animated, excited. Behind him, like a fussing shadow, hurried Second Lieutenant Brambley, who was intently reciting facts and figures from an incessantly bleeping data-pad. Following Brambley hurried a trio of junior officers, their expressions taut and pale. None of them were consulted.

The difference between the two senior officers was striking. Where the major was sweaty, hulking and decorated with three days of silvery-stubble, Brambley was clean-cut, short and compact; the very epitome of military-trim. Another key difference was that he did not have a cigar jutting out from the corner of his mouth. The major paid his XO little attention, pausing his tirade only to check a fact or confirm an estimate. Perry bolted to his feet, snapping a tight salute as the five officers swept past.

All of them ignored him.

The sight would have been comical, had the major not suddenly halted just as he was about to round the corridor. Brambley and his coterie almost collided into him, each of them making an admirable attempt at looking unsurprised at the sudden stop.

Abruptly, Abelev turned, plucked the cigar from his mouth and pointed a meaty finger back down the corridor. With a jolt, Perry realised he was pointing at him. What followed was not so much a conversation as a series of growled instructions.

"You! Perry, right? Good. Follow me son. Work to do."

And with that the collection of officers vanished around the corner. As Perry scooped up his flight helmet and scurried after them, emergency sirens began to blare in the distance.

_On the bright side_, Perry thought to himself, _at least he knows my name._

The briefing room, such as it was, was adequate, if nothing else.

Originally designed for civic planning presentations, it was a semi-circular chamber at the summit of the starport's tower. It was a gloomy room, arrayed in a series of three tiers, each rising in width as they expanded. A large display monitor dominated the far wall. Naval officers, militia commanders and local representatives filled the chamber, whispering fiercely amongst each other. Rumours and frenzied speculation spread like wild-fire.

The door slid open. There was a fluttering sound as thirty military personnel sprang to attention simultaneously. The other twenty or so, civilians all, also shuffled to their feet.

Major Abelev and Second-Lieutenant Brambley strode straight down to the presentation area. Perry, for his part, meekly stood in the darkest corner at the back of the room.

Abelev stepped forward to address the crowd, and returned the room's collective salute smartly, much to Brambley's visible relief. Somewhere along the way from his office to the briefing room, the cigar had vanished. He almost looked respectable.

Abelev squinted up into the projector lights which shone down upon him, eyeing the crowd before him as he scratched his stubble thoughtfully. Nobody spoke. After a pause, the major broke the silence.

"Can all non-essential personnel please vacate the room." Abelev stated.

That was the major at his most courteous. Even the eternally-stiff Brambley looked taken aback by the display.

Nobody moved. Abelev scowled.

"I said get out." he spat, "That's an order, not a request."

There was an eruption of indignant protests, mainly from the civilians present. Abelev's withering stare and bunched jaw silenced them quickly. Tellingly, all of the junior marine officers present had already left, without hesitation or complaint. The crowd began to file out, and a confused Perry turned to join them.

"Not you, Warmonger." a gloved hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. "It's your lucky day."

Perry turned around, and suppressed the urge to yelp. Barely. Lurking right behind him was a fully armoured Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, all impassive visor and glittering weaponry. With his matt-black armour, he seemed to blend with the shadows of the dark room. He'd been standing there the entire time, and Perry hadn't even realised it. The name "Murphy" was stencilled across his chest plate.

"W-we've met before?" Perry managed; conscious of the high-pitched pique his voice had taken on.

"Yeah, you've run my boys out on field exercises." the man's voice was jovial, even through the filters of his fully-encased helmet, "Wasn't wearing the full show-suit then, mind you." The soldier rapped his name-tag with his knuckles, before proffering his hand.

"Staff Sergeant Brendan Murphy, 105th Helljumpers. Call me Murph."

"Dave Perry. Nice to meet you, Murph."

Perry accepted the soldier's proffered hand and shook it, doing his best not to wince as the marine's vice-like grip ground the bones in his hand to a fine paste.

Perry found it disconcerting to have a conversation with a fully reflective visor: all it did was reflect his own terrified expression. The ODST, unfortunately, seemed to be enjoying the exchange thoroughly. The pilot was beginning to suspect the man was mentally unhinged altogether. _You'd want to be, if you jumped out into space without a parachute for a living._

Perry opened his mouth to say something, but the major was beginning his briefing.

"Come on down, everyone, I'd rather not have to shout." Abelev's beckoned everyone closer, his torn mouth twisted in a vague facsimile of a smile. Even without the scar-tissue, the expression was forced, strained.

They gathered around on the lowest tier. Ten men and women in total, a collection of the most influential people in the colony. And Perry. Many of those present represented fundamental trade-skills: civil engineers, technical advisors - aspects crucial to the successful operation of any colony.

Among them was Administrator Amanda Jennings, a graceful woman who would have been attractive, had the stress of administrating the colony not worn her grey years ago. Perry knew that she'd lost her husband some months ago, one of the first to disappear on the outer patrols. Now, crows' feet tugged at her eyes, and her manner these days was usually reserved, frosty. Her way of coping, Perry guessed. Nevertheless, when Jennings spoke, people listened. Like everyone else on the colony, the pilot respected her immensely.

"Major Abelev, I thank you for your attempts at keeping us calm," Jennings began, "But I would ask you for a frank assessment of our ability to deal with this threat." The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "No bullshit."

"Straight to business, ma'am, I like it." Abelev's awkward smile blossomed to an honest grin, "As you know, I'm just a straight-to-God ground pounder, so I'm gonna step aside and let the space-jockeys brief you on what it is we're dealing with, before I give you my take on things."

Abelev motioned for one of the men, a thin man dressed in a singed Navy command uniform, to step forward.

Lieutenant Commander Henry Song was the ranking naval officer on the planet. Like many of the surviving senior crewmembers, the skin on his face had been partially disfigured by plasma burns - the after effects of the near-destruction _Anchises'_ bridge at Reach. Despite the lack of naval assets available on the planet, his presence was not simply out of courtesy toward protocol: former navy crewmen made up a large percentage of the current Colonial Militia serving on Crassus.

Song slid a data-chip into the briefing podium in front of him, and then nodded toward Song. On the display above, a blurry image of the crippled Covenant ship flickered into view. Song's voice was strong, confident. Perry could see why such a young man had advanced so quickly through the Navy's ranks.

"This image was taken seventeen minutes ago, by one of the starport's automated scanning posts. I apologise for its quality."

He let the image sink in with his audience.

"I take it that it requires no introduction, especially to those of you who served with me aboard the _Anchises_. It's a standard-pattern Covenant Cruiser - _standard_, but still a real nasty piece of work. Now these things can vary slightly in size, but you're looking at about 1,782 metres of superior combat vessel, give or take. Its crew size, unfortunately, is unknown, but it's estimated at being somewhere between six or seven hundred."

"As you can see, it's heavily damaged. From what, we don't know - our main scanners systems are still hit and miss ever since the storm hit. We estimate that it crashed down about fifty clicks east of Horizon. As for the cause of the crash, that's also unknown."

The display shifted. An illustration of a Covenant Cruiser began to rotate on the screen, a steam of data scrolling down beside it, projecting a myriad of estimates.

"You mentioned an estimate crew of seven hundred," One of the engineers folded his arms and sounded sceptical, "Surely we outnumber them easily - Harvest has a population of nearly two million!"

Song smiled patiently.

"That Cruiser isn't what really scares me." The display shifted to show an image of a far larger vessel, lurking just above the planet. A hushed gasp shot out across the chamber.

"This is the Covenant Carrier chasing it - it's about three times larger, and is currently in low orbit on the far side of Crassus. As its name implies; it's a troop carrier designed for planetary assault."

Song's voice was low as he continued.

"I should add that this cruiser doesn't just scare me - it terrifies me. If and when they touch down on the surface, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to be grossly out-classed and out-numbered."

Abelev cleared his throat, his rheumy eyes taking in all those around him.

"Which is where I take over. You mentioned Horizon's population being around two million. You forget that only about a third of that is comprised of viable, combat-ready militia personnel, and that's only provided we implement a draft." Abelev shook his head grimly, "You're also forgetting that these are Covenant shock-troops we're going to be dealing with. They're well armed, and they fight smart. Needless to say, anything which gets discussed here does not leave this room."

"About the militia... make it about half of us willing to fight, Major." Jennings spoke up, "Granted, we're a second-generation colony, but many of the original settlers will step forward to fight, if needs be. We can make a difference."

"Not without proper training you won't." Brambley sniffed.

"Proper training?" A filtered voice spoke up. "Some of the hardest bastards I ever fought alongside never had any proper training. Just guns with a whole lotta balls behind 'em."

It was the ODST, Murphy. The Lieutenant balked at the soldier's insubordination, but the sight of the fully-armed commando put paid to any remark he would have made. Everyone turned and looked at Murphy.

An awkward silence descended.

Murphy seemed to realise he'd put his foot in it. He held up his hands in an apologetic, non-threatening fashion. A strange sight, considering he was armed to the teeth.

"Uh, permission to speak, I mean. Sir." he blushed, thankful to be hidden behind the opal-coloured visor.

Perry fought to hide a grin. The ODST were the best of the best, but their elite status often branded them as cowboys, fire-brands both on and off the battlefield. He'd heard the stories, and this Murphy confirmed every one of them.

"Knock yourself out, trooper." Abelev arched an eyebrow, sharing in everyone else's amusement. The ODST inclined his head respectfully, his helmet clicking with the gesture.

"Sir, with the utmost respect to the LT - these people carved a colony out of nothing but rock and sand. They've already got the prerequisite survival skills. Plus they know how to dig in. You give me three weeks of honest time; I'll have my boys whip 'em into shape."

Abelev pursed his lips, considering. By tasking the ODST with training the militia, the overall city's defence would benefit from their extensive experience. On the flip-side, it meant not being able to deploy the most potent offensive tool in his arsenal. He turned toward Brambley.

"Lieutenant, what's our current strength?"

Brambley's summary, as ever, was nothing if not efficient.

"Two full strength platoons - Alpha and Charlie - as well as the leftovers from Bravo: they've lost quite a few these past few weeks - so we're numbered at 120 active marines, factoring in the recent MIAs."

The heavy-set major considered this, resting his hands on the podium. His jaw was set in concentration. Finally, he spoke.

"Alright, let's shuffle it up - three new platoons, forty men in each. Same platoon designations as before. Charlie and Bravo get to keep the home fires burning. I want this place locked down tight."

"And Alpha Platoon?" Brambley asked, data-pad in hand.

"They go hunting." Abelev grinned. Then he pointed at Murphy. "Alright, soldier, we're compromising: we don't have a week, so you've got four days to forge our happy residents from being well behaved and eating apple pie to spitting nails and kicking ass. Understood?"

"Everything but the apple pie reference, Sir." Murphy saluted.

"Good," Abelev clapped his hands together. "Alright people, we have a plan, let's get to it."


	7. Touchdown

Fifty-three kilometres east of Horizon, a ragged trench of fire and smoking metal tore deep into the desert floor. The sand had been branded a scorched black. At the end of this trench, the _Pride of Sanghelios_, a once-proud and regal warship of the Covenant Fleet, now resembled a grotesque bleached whale. It had sunk down into the sand, like a smouldering meteor. The ship's surface was cracked and pitted; the purple hull plating all but sheered away from the violent, tumbling impact. For hundreds of meters around, a minefield of burning debris sizzled in the morning sun. Inside, things were a stark contrast.

There was darkness; total and absolute.

Above him, lights flickered. He felt distant heat, and could dimly hear the soft crackling of flames. Slowly, the world began to swirl its way back into focus. Something groaned.

Vtan realised it was him. His fingers groped about for a handhold. He felt the edge of a seat, his grip biting deep into the cushioning. The Shipmaster hauled himself back up into his command throne groggily. Warning icons on his helmet's display fizzled as his combat harness' shield system slowly hummed back to life.

"Status report!" Vtan croaked.

Nobody answered. Like all Covenant vessels, the ship's bridge was comfortably nestled in the centre of the ship. As such, it was the most structurally secure location, impervious to all but the most critical of injuries. That so many of the bridge crew had been tossed about like rag dolls did not bode well.

Unlike Vtan, the bridge crew did not have the luxury of a command throne, and so found themselves piled in an ungainly heap at the far end of the chamber. Thankfully, all were still breathing. Their combat harnesses had saved their lives.

The first to recover was the helmsman, Zuka 'Ornon. He moaned, coughed, and rolled over onto his back, nursing a hand over his chest protectively. His normally polished crimson armour had been scalded black in several places. Vtan staggered over toward him, extending a helpful hand.

"It seems as though we made it here in one piece, Helmsman," Vtan observed wryly, "No thanks to your piloting."

Zuka chuckled darkly as he grabbed the Shipmaster's wrist, hauling himself to his feet.

"My apologies, Shipmaster." Zuka retorted, "Next time I shall try and land without the ship's engines exploding."

"I look forward to it." Vtan replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "See to the others, we must act quickly."

Zuka saluted, and moved off to help the other Sangheili. Vtan craned his neck around and spoke a single name over his shoulder.

"Rukth."

The smoky air rippled behind him, tracing a vague outline. A faint shimmering blur hummed into focus, revealing a heavily scarred Sangheili, his head bowed in reverence. Rukth 'Kilkar's left eye had burst in the impact. Purple ichor dripped down onto his mandible plating. If it bothered him, he gave no sign. The two Sangheili - Vtan, a pearlescent white, and Rukth, an ebony shadow - folded their fists across their breast-plates in mutual respect.

"Well met, Shipmaster." Rukth's voice was a lethal whisper. Fitting, given his status as a Special Operations Sangheili.

"You are injured." Vtan noted.

"The wound is inconsequential, Shipmaster." Rukth shook his head, "It shall not impede me."

"Nothing ever does. Our status?"

"Grim. We have lost most of our power, though rudimentary life support remains. Regrettably, all hatches and grav-lifts have ceased functioning. Were it not for our energy swords, and the strength of the Mgalekgolo, we could have found ourselves entombed within our own vessel."

Rukth paused to swipe some blood away from the forward sloping mandibles of his helmet, before continuing.

"The air in the lower decks is thick with the taste of radiation - I dare not risk my remaining men in further investigation, but we must assume that most of the Huragok and Unngoy onboard have fallen prey to its taint."

Vtan listened to the news sombrely. Though like all Sangheili, he viewed the other species as lesser beings, but he took no pleasure in hearing their fate. His crew deserved better. Sensing this, the darker Elite's mandibles tightened in discomfort.

"I… am sorry to say, Shipmaster, but your ship shall not travel the stars again."

"I expected as much." Vtan's voice was resigned, but any bitterness he might have felt did not show, "The _Pride of Sanghelios_ might have come to an end, but that does not mean I shall allow its crew to meet the same fate. We will avenge its name, and those that have given their lives in its service."

Rukth nodded in approval.

"It is good that you do not lose clarity, Shipmaster. I have sent my men to scour a path through the vessel. Already, your personal Mgalekgolo have cleaved their way toward the starboard passages."

"You managed to convince them to abandon the bridge?" Vtan could not hide his surprise. The Shipmaster's two bodyguards were enigmatic, and all but incomprehensible at the best of times, but their sense of duty was unquestionable, almost to a fault.

Rukth grinned, gesturing toward a gaping hole where the bridge's main entrance used to be. The melted seams of metal still glowed white-hot from where a twinned pair of Assault Cannons had liquefied the blast-door.

"Only after they had been assured of your safety." Rukth explained, before adding, "Who am I to disagree with an entire colony of worms, much less two."

Vtan twitched his mandibles in a grateful smile, and then stepped over to the edge of the command dais. Below, a battered assembly of shell-shocked Sangheli had assembled. Despite widespread injury, their eyes were watchful and strong, full of determination. The sight filled him with pride. Raising his voice, he addressed them in words befitting the rank of Shipmaster. His voice was coolly-modulated, deep and solemn.

"Brothers, we have been dealt a great blow this day. Our Covenant has been sundered, our High Council betrayed." He made a sweeping gesture indicating the battered bridge around them. "Even now, our great vessel lies in ruins. We are the victims of a terrible deceit. Of treachery most foul."

Vtan 'Arume's voice rose in volume. A master orator, every word was crafted, each syllable carefully selected for the most import. The glowing eyes of his faceplate seemed to burn with passion, as though fuelled by a great fire within. For cycles afterward, his words would be remembered as one of the defining moments of the Crassus campaign.

"Consider, my Brothers, the name of our vessel. _The Pride of __**Sanghelios**_. It is the name of _our_ home, the name of _our_ people. That ship is broken now, all but shattered in the wake of a terrible injustice. Its weapons shall remain silent. Its title shall reap victories no longer. But do I despair in this, Brothers? Do I bow down, and accept the fate thrust upon us? Never!"

Vtan's hands balled into fists.

"Because the title of our ship is just that - a title, and nothing more. It is defined not by the words that compose it, but rather the inspiration behind their very choosing! Integrity, honour, discipline- each of these traits set us apart from the gutless dogs who would seek to crush us underfoot. Do I lament my vessel's passing? Yes, and I shall repay them thrice-fold for what they have done!"

Vtan's eyes met with each of the Sangheili in turn.

"But I do not despair. For I know that each of those same qualities are exhibited by the Sangheili I see before me. It is your integrity, discipline and honour that are instrumental to our success, nay; our very _survival_ as a species. For many cycles, you have served with me aboard this vessel. We have fought many battles together, you and I, won many victories. You have never failed me. Now, more so than ever before, I would ask that you follow me into battle as diligently as you have done in the past. And so I ask you: _are you with me, Brothers?_ Will you take up arms by my side, and follow me to victory once more?"

"Until our dying breath, Shipmaster!" one of the Sangheili shouted. There was a booming chorus of assent. Many thumped their fists against their chest-plates in vehement approval. The Shipmaster nodded slowly, satisfied.

"I could ask for no finer answer. Your orders are as follows. Rally the crew, head for the exits. The Jiralhanae shall be upon us shortly, and I do not intend for us to be easy prey."

He paused, then flexed the grip moulded to his right hand. There was a snap-hiss as a sleek double-edged energy sword flared into being, casting everything around it in a faint blue glow. He held it aloft, and bellowed.

"Should the mongrels even dare to try and sink their teeth into us; the only thing they shall discover is that the price paid was not worth the tasting!"

All around him, the Sangheili howled their defiance against overwhelming odds.


	8. The Alpha Council

High-Chieftain Torikus was furious. Already, he had bludgeoned an orderly to death for having the foolishness to deliver a negative status report in person.

All across the _Implacable_, plasma batteries had fused into twisted lumps of blackened slag. What was left of the front-portside firing crews was all but unrecognisable. The forward energy lances, each one of them glowing borderline critical, lay inert and impotent. Swarms of Huragok, their bright tentacles whirling, rushed to appease the ailing ship. Most of those systems would never recover, such was damage wrought by the catastrophic collision.

Torikus' personal guard, ensconced in majestic golden armour, dragged the hapless orderly's corpse from the Shipmaster's sight. Trailing behind them was a long streak of blood and Jiralhanae skull fragments.

Even now, a full two hours after the disaster, Torikus' rage had not abated. The High-Chieftain was a towering mass of rippling fur and muscle, his pelt a mottled brown. Heavy streaks of regal silver flecked his shaggy coat, denoting his seniority. To those with a less discerning eye, his curving ceremonial armour, a deep ebony chased with fiery-red and burnished gold, erased all doubt of his supremacy amongst the pack. He lashed out at a passing Unngoy, who ducked and fled with a shrill squeal of terror. Everyone else on the bridge withdrew another few steps.

They knew better than to approach the High-Chieftain when his blood was up.

The instigating factor behind this insurmountable fury was not the destruction visited upon the front of his vessel, nor was it the casualties suffered. No, Torikus' reasons were far more personal. The fire control station adjacent to his command throne had exploded: his coat had been singed. The fur on his arm, once proud and full, was now patchy and scorched in places. The smell of burnt hair made his nostrils twitch, infuriating him further. This latest insult dealt by the heretical Sangheili was personal. It would not go unpunished.

"Where are my Chieftains?" Torkis snapped, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Six heavily armoured warriors clattered hastily into the room. Like Torikus, they wore heavily gilded armour, though theirs was far less ostentatious than his own. _As it should be_, Torikus thought with a sneer.

Each Chieftain's armour was individual; the variations subtle and nuanced. Some wore a more simplistic combination of red and black, others a deeply reflective bronzed-gold. They had all been marked and carved to reflect past triumphs, in a style custom to each Chieftain's pack heritage. No two were alike.

Indeed, the only thing each Chieftain had in common was the weapons they carried. Most of them carried fuel rod cannons, long-barrelled artillery pieces capable of unparallel destruction, whilst others wielded monstrous Gravity Hammers, the ubiquitous symbol of Alpha-Jiralhanae status. Torikus narrowed his eyes at them scornfully.

"Where are Wrlakus and Hortkus?" Torikus growled, "Do they insult me by ignoring my summons?"

"Shipmaster…" Chieftain Malwrekus kept his head bowed and his voice grave, "I am sorry to report, but both were prey to the flames which still ravage our ship."

"Then they are fools and incompetents!" Torikus crowed dismissively, "Replace them with Jiralhanae more deserving their titles."

"As you wish, High-Chieftain." Malwreckus bowed.

Appeased by this show of deference, Torikus folded his arms across his chest, and began to pace in front of his assembled Alphas.

"The Sangheili vessel has crashed upon the planet below us. Our preliminary scans have shown that much of their vessel remains intact. Survivors, however few, are likely. No doubt the heretics will try and flee into the surrounding area, like the elusive cowards they have proven themselves to be. One of you shall take a detachment of ground troops and pursue them while we stabilise matters here. I require a volunteer."

All six chieftains stepped forward without hesitation. Torikus snuffled, bemused, and then selected one at random. It was Traeltarus, one of his own kin.

"You, Traeltarus. Step forward, pack-brother."

Traeltarus, one of the youngest of the Alpha-Jiralhanae present, un-slung his cannon and stepped forward. His bronze armour was a relatively unscarred, compared to the others behind him: a reflection of his comparative inexperience. The other Alpha Jiralhanae's fur bristled in displeasure, but sensibly kept it quiet. Nepotism was all too common in their society.

"As my pack-brother's son, you shall have the honour of leading our forces into battle. Do you accept this position?"

"I accept the position, High-Chieftain." Traeltarus bowed.

"Good. Dismissed."

Torikus turned away as the Alphas filed out, then twisted around.

"Oh, and a parting request, pack-brother."

"Name it, High Chieftain," Traeltarus said, pausing in the bridge's entryway. "And it shall be so."

"The Heretic-Shipmaster." Torikus' eyes glittered maliciously, "Bring me his head: I wish to use his bones to sharpen my teeth."

Across the bridge, far away from the assembled Alpha-Jiralhanae, Bralterakus eyed this exchange with barely concealed ambition.


	9. A New Game

It was almost midday, and Horizon was busy.

The storm had cleared, and preparations began in earnest. The UNSC militia filled the massive expanse of the starport's hardpan, some thirty thousand recruits. Conscripts by necessity, some of them had handled weaponry before, having served aboard the UNSC _Anchises_. The majority of the civilians were another matter. Most had never owned a weapon, much less fired one. They wore a jumbled mix of worker overalls, functional jumpsuits and frontier survival gear. Many of them had donned hard-hats and glare-goggles; leftovers from the city's refineries.

With 1.2 million potential volunteers to train, and only a four day time period with which to do so, Murphy had his work cut out for him.

Fortunately, he was not alone. Beside him, the nine other members of his ODST strike platoon, Special Operations Team Omega, fanned out in a straight line before the seemingly endless horde, their arms clasped neatly behind the small of their backs. All of them were fully suited in black body suits and fully-enclosed helmets. The look was suitably impressive, which - of course - was entirely intentional. Instil and inspire, as the major had said.

Behind him, some thirty off-duty marines had lined up, as well a few hundred officers from Horizon's original sanctioned militia. Those present were all that could be spared, the rest having been tasked with overseeing the construction of Horizon's perimeter defences. In the distance, Murphy could hear the endless whine of industrial-strength drills. _Comparatively, I have the fun job._

Murphy took a moment to consult his data pad.

The training was to be carried out in massive shift rotations. At any given time, one third of the colony's populace would perform drills under the supervision of qualified military personnel, while another third would engage in digging trenches and setting up emplacements. The remainder would take a six hour rest period, after which the rotation would begin anew.

Their orders were simple. They were to instruct the populace in what Major Abelev had called "Fundamental and Preparatory", which was the technical term for a crash course in basic weapons and ballistics training, how to make use of available cover, proper rationing (of both ammunition and food), as well elementary squad mechanics.

"Some party you've got us hosting, Sarge." Specialist Hopkins muttered over the internal squad-link.

"Just as well I've a pretty face." Murphy grinned, before reaching up and peeling off his helmet. He clipped on a com-headset, fumbling with it momentarily. An ear-splitting blurt of interference warbled from the starport's public address system, and as the awful electronic squeal reverberated about the tarmac, Murphy became the unfortunate recipient of thirty thousand irritated people hissing their displeasure in unison.

Murphy smiled sheepishly, feeling all of two feet tall. Blushing, he spoke into the mic.

"**ERM, SORRY ABOUT THAT!**" Murphy's voice boomed out. All across the city, roosting carrion squawked and fled in terror. Even the commandos cursed.

More hisses. Some booed.

_Yup, definitely relying on that pretty face now_, Murphy thought acidly, as he fumbled with the PA headset's volume settings. Finally getting it under control, he keyed it again.

"Ahem, testing- One, two, one, two… right. Fantastic."

Everyone clapped. There were even some wolf-whistles. Murphy, ever the showman, loved ever single moment of it. He spread his arms wide, like a circus ringmaster, an infectious grin plastered across his face.

"Now then, who's ready to learn 'Badass 101' ?"

* * *

On the far side of the starport, Sarah was hiding.

She was tired of hearing Mom's periodic messages on the PA. They were meant to sooth the population, and keep everyone focused, but all it did was remind Sarah of how much time she didn't get to see her own mother. Ever since the ship in the sky had appeared, Mom had left her in the care of the local shelter. It was the Responsible Thing to Do, she had said.

And Sarah knew that the Responsible Thing to Do, while sacred to Mom, was actually boring. Really boring.

And so she played a new game. Clad as usual in Daddy's old environment suit, Sarah had snuck out of the shelter, taking with her a survival pack consisting of her drawing pad, her finest crayons and - for Mom's sake more so than anything else - a generously packed lunch. She knew how silly Mom would get if she thought Sarah wasn't eating. As resourceful as ever, Sarah had managed to sneak across the city to her favourite spot. The grown-ups so busy fussing about, they didn't notice her as she carefully picked her way through the lines of idle spaceships.

It was there that she found her new hiding place.

Suddenly, she could hear urgent, voices, and the clomping of heavy boots. There came a hissing sound, the sound of a hatch sealing, and with a panicked start, Sarah realised she was trapped. A brave girl, just like her Daddy, she didn't panic for long. Instead she smiled.

Secreted away aboard Pelican Kilo-Six-Four, stashed within an empty equipment locker, Sarah Jennings was finally going on a real adventure.


	10. The Exodus

High in the sky above the ruined hulk of the _Pride of Sanghelios_, a trio of dots appeared. From a distance, one could have been forgiven for thinking they were simple carrion, to be forgotten in an instant. As the shapes grew closer however, and began to resolve themselves into more defined shapes, it became clear that these were far more dangerous than any vulture.

The Phantom assault craft were a flying contradiction. In one sense, they were bulky and bloated, thick-plated vessels designed for ferrying Covenant shock troops to and from the battlefield. True to all Covenant design, however, the ships also possessed a delicate sleekness. Curved, swooping lines lent them an elongated aspect. Arranged in tight V-formation, the sun winked off the edges of their gleaming hulls as they banked in for an inspection pass.

Aboard the point ship, the _Malicious Intent_, Alpha-Jiralhanae Traeltarus rolled his neck about in a lazy circle, cracking his tendons with an audible pop. His fingers drummed idly against the side of his massive fuel rod cannon. For the third time in as many minutes, he checked the ammo gauge once again.

It was a nervous habit. Although he would never admit it, the Chieftain was tense. High expectations had been placed upon him. Traeltarus had received this duty by dint of his status as a direct blood-relative of Shipmaster Torikus himself. The heated whisperings of would-be rivals ran thick throughout the many corridors of the _Impacable_, and this mission was a chance to see them silenced. No longer would his ability be in question.

"Pack-Leader, report from our fighter escort: hostiles sighted fleeing for the western canyons." The pilot's voice rasped over the Battle Net, "Permission to pursue?"

Traelterus reached up and clicked the button attached to the underside of his bronze head-crest.

"Granted." Traelterus ordered. "Accelerate to full attack speed. Extrerminate them like the vermin they are!"

Underneath his helmet, Pack-Chieftain Traeltarus bared his fangs in a tight smile.

Once and for all, he would be free of his uncle's shadow.

* * *

"Make haste for the canyons!" Vtan urged, "Keep moving, Brothers! The Jiralhanae are almost upon us!"

The survivors of the _Sanghelios'_ crash, some fifty-three Sangheili, four hundred Unngoy and - sticking closely to Vtan himself - the towering Mgalekgolo twins, had barely freed themselves from the wreckage when they heard the tell-tale whoosh of anti-grav engines overhead. All semblance of battle order was forgotten as they fled for the shelter of the twisting valleys ahead. They did so not out of cowardice, but out of necessity.

Vtan knew the Jiralhanae's strategies well. They would first try and trap the Sangheili within the confines of their own vessel, slaughtering all those aboard in as brutal a manner as possible. In the event resistance proved too great, they would simply pen the Sangheili in, and obliterate the vessel from orbit in one fell stroke.

Failing that, the Jiralhanae ground forces would track any surviving refugees as they attempted to flee, making their locations known to the aerial craft which were inevitably to come. With the brute's quarantine broken, the last of the three options was now in play.

The Sangheili's only chance was to get under cover as quickly as possible.

Salvation lay two hundred metres ahead. A thick outcrop of mountainous canyons loomed up across the horizon. A maze of winding passages wormed their way through the rock-face, promising a warren of potential hiding places. If they could get there, the Sangheili would be able to mount a reasonable defence, by using the Banshees lack of manoeuvrability against them. The alternative was to flee into the open desert, and be massacred accordingly.

Vtan closed his eyes, willing his legs to keep pumping forward. The sound of the Jiralhanae's collective engines grew louder. They were out of time.

There was a keening boom as a pair of Banshee attack-fighters swooped overhead, spitting a torrent of hissing plasma fire from their wingtips. Behind Vtan, Unngoy wailed haplessly as they were mercilessly strafed.

Fallen Sangheili tumbled to the dirt, their shields overwhelmed and their bodies broken. Enraged, Vtan stopped and pointed at the Banshees circling around for a second attack run, oblivious to the lancing bolts of plasma which rent the ground around him.

"Mgalekgolo, turn and address!" he barked. They complied without hesitation.

As one, the Mgalekgolo halted, wheeled about, and unleashed a devastating salvo from their assault cannon. One of the Banshees ran straight into it, and its port wing exploded. The fighter was thrown into a reckless spin, before it struck the ground, skipped twice, then erupted in a spectacular fireball. Cheers ran up and down the Sangheili rank and file. The second Banshee, wary now at the loss of its wingman, withdrew. Gratified, Vtan led his people into the safety of the waiting canyons.

For the Sangheili on Crassus, the war had finally begun.

* * *

"Kilo-Six Four, I am reading multiple contacts in your sector, both airborne and available ground targets. Watch yourself, Warmonger."

Perry adjusted the throttle and flipped on the com. For safety's sake, he also took the liberty of prepping the Pelican's twin-linked chain guns.

"Acknowledged, Strongarm, I am in position to set down Fire-team Alpha-One. You just get your boys to the LZ intact, over."

"You telling me how to do my job, Warmonger?"

Elaina Santos, call-sign Strongarm, was a notoriously bellicose woman. _Cute too_. Such banter was tradition.

"Always, Strongarm." Perry grinned. "Warmonger out."

Perry peered of the viewport. In the distance, just off the port-side, he could see Strongarm delivering her "customers" to Fire-team Alpha-Two's insertion point. Alpha Platoon had been tasked with gauging the condition of the downed Covenant cruiser. Perry's orders were to set his cargo down in one of the wider valleys west of the crash, and then standby for extraction.

He spied the LZ, an open stretch in the mouth of one of the side valleys. He guided the craft down carefully, setting it down beneath the shade of the overhanging canyon wall. There was a gentle bump-hiss as the landing gear kissed the sandy floor. Perry powered down all non-essential systems, not wishing to attract any unwanted hostile attention. "Running quiet", as the Navy called it. He then released the magnetic grip-lock holding Fireteam Alpha-One's M831 Troop Transport. There was a rattling thud as the heavy vehicle fell free.

The hatch behind Perry slid open. Staff Sergeant Howard poked his head through the doorway. Only the sergeant's mouth and chin were visible beneath his helmet. Like most of the marines on Crassus, he opted to attach a glare-visor to his dark-green combat helmet. His lips were drawn, although this was nothing unusual for Howard, who lived up to his reputation as a by-the-book, no-nonsense hard ass.

"Alright, flyboy, you've done your part, just sit your ass tight while we do ours." Howard gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm leaving Hughes, Price, Long and Myers here to secure the LZ; you'll reach 'em on TAC-COM Channel 17. They'll keep you safe."

"Roger that," Perry nodded, tipping the rim of his impact-visor in a casual-salute. Howard nodded then disappeared down the rear dispersal platform without another word.

"Not much of a conversationalist" Perry quipped, watching as the Warthog trundled away, its six occupants bouncing about as its massive tyres crunched their way across the rocky valley floor. Wispy dust wafted up from the rear hatch, but Perry decided to leave it as it was. His helmet's filters could handle the dust, and the breeze was actually pretty good, once you got past all the sand.

Behind him, something sneezed.

Perry twisted about in his harness, craning his neck around. He listened. _Did I just imagine that? _The perplexed pilot opened the com channel the sergeant had left with him.

"Hey, Warmonger here; did one of you boys hear something?" he asked.

"This is Corporal Myers, all quiet out here," one of the soldiers replied. "Something up, flyboy?"

"Uh, no, never mind." Perry mumbled sheepishly. He switched off the com.

"You're losing it, Dave." Perry shook his head ruefully, settling back in his chair.

Something sneezed again. This time, he definitely hadn't imagined it. In one motion, Perry popped the restraints and slid a hand down to the side-arm strapped to his leg. He drew the compact pistol smoothly, racking the slide. Sliding out of his chair, he approached the source of the sound, weapon raised. It was a non-descript cargo locker, one of four cramped between the pilot's cabin and the "Blood Tray" where the marines had debarked from. Perry took a deep breath, reached forward, and hauled the locker open.

A yellow bundle burst from the locker in an explosion of tangled limbs and disposed MREs. Perry yelped and fell back against the far wall. After a moment of heart-stopping terror, he realised it was a child, wrapped in an environmental suit three times too big for her. The little girl was sneezing violently, her eyes watering from the dust.

"'Yellow!" Sarah Jennings beamed. "We're on an adventure!"

Perry recognised her immediately. After all, she looked just like her mother. At that moment, his brain was only capable of processing two words.

"Oh _shit_." Perry breathed.


	11. Entanglement

Above the canyons of Crassus, death lingered.

The Sangheili refugees skulked in the deep shadows offered by the high canyon walls, flattening themselves against the dirt as yet another Jiralhanae patrol shrieked by.

Vtan guided his forces through the tighter chasms, knowing all too well what would happen were they to trek through more exposed terrain. As if to emphasise his point, a ponderous Phantom blotted out the sun overhead, its belly-mounted turrets tracking toward the wider passages Vtan had intentionally chosen to avoid.

Vtan froze. The Phantom had slowed to a gentle hover right above them. Vtan could even feel the heat from the ship's engine wash upon his skin. Several Sangheili exchanged uneasy looks, their hands reaching reflexively toward their weapons. The Unngoy twitched erratically, scared out of their minds. Only the presence of their Sangheili masters kept them from panicking altogether.

"All forces, hold your fire." Vtan whispered into the Battle Net. "Not a sound."

"That goes double for Unngoy," That was Rukth, from somewhere further down the Separatist line. "If you so much as breathe too loudly, you shall answer to me personally."

With a whirring clank, the side hatches on the Phantom yawned open. Vtan could just about make out a flash of cobalt armour. One of the senior Jiralhanae shock-troops was sweeping the horizon through the scope of his carbine, looking for targets. Had he the intelligence to check below, he would have found his prey sitting right beneath him.

Zerat 'Omdolo, second in command of the Special Operations detachment, lined up a shot with his beam rifle. A gifted sniper, it was a guaranteed kill. Vtan placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head slowly. Reluctantly, Zerat lowered the rifle. Seemingly frustrated, the Jiralhanae ducked back into the Phantom. The side hatch began to close.

Vtan closed his eyes, relief coursing through his veins

It was then that a rocket hissed up from the adjacent canyon, slamming straight into the closing mouth of the Jiralhanae troop carrier. There was a dazzling blossom of fire, and a thunderous boom shook the air. A burning shower of metal, fire and body parts rained down upon the Sangheili. Within a heartbeat, all hell had broken loose.

"Hit it again!" Sergeant Howard hollered. He had to shout to be heard over the roaring wind. In the back-seat, Private Gunder struggled to centre the stricken Phantom in his sights, trying to paint it with the bleeping crosshair. At that speed, this was not an easy task. The target danced giddily in his sights. The Warthog's suspension shook its passengers about like ragdolls. Gunder heard the affirmative _ping_ of a target-lock and squeezed the firing stud.

With a violent _hiss-sneeze_, the rocket banged out of the launcher and up into the sky. It arced into the jagged wound in the Phantom's side, prompting a geyser of fire to vomit out both side hatches. The crippled landing craft dropped into a graceless dive, falling out of sight. In the distance, they heard an even larger secondary explosion.

"Hell yeah! That's a confirmed kill!" Gunder whooped, smacking palms with the marine next to him. It was his first confirmed kill.

His celebration was premature.

A second Phantom rose into view, belly turrets blazing. The driver swore and threw the wheel in a desperate evasive spin. The vehicle slid about, wheels locking into a savage skid. The entire jeep rolled twice, before miraculously managing to land on its feet again.

Five of the marines, though thoroughly disorientated, remained intact. Gunder was not so fortunate. He had still been standing up when the warthog tipped over. The young man's neck was pulverised as he was ground between the dirt and the monstrous weight of the vehicle. His rocket launcher tumbled free into the dirt.

"Shit! Man down!" The medic was shouting.

It was the first human casualty inflicted by the Jiralhanae in course of the Crassus campaign.

It would not be the last.

* * *

Back in Horizon's Control Tower, dozens of navy technicians perched before rows of whirring communications equipment. Hovering behind them, Abelev and Brambley were hunched over one of the consoles. Their faces were taut with the burden of command.

"We have a man down; Private Thomas Gunder." Howard's voice was tinny as it came through the com-link.

"What's his status?" Brambley responded, his brow knitted in concern. There was a dreadful pause.

"He's KIA, Sir. I say again, KIA."

A sombre hush fell over the room. The two marines exchanged a worn look, one they had shared all too often in the past.

"Acknowledged, Alpha-One, things are getting too hot out there." Abelev had seen enough. "Disengage and head for extraction, over."

"Ten-Four, Alpha-One out."

"You're pulling them back already?" Brambley asked, arching his eyebrows in surprise.

"If they're able to scramble that many Phantoms already, then I'd say we've assessed their strength well enough. I'm not going to waste valuable marines confirming the obvious."

Brambley nodded. He wasn't one to argue. Across the room, one of the com officers frowned, and squinted up at the two marines.

"Uh, Sir, we're getting a transmission from Kilo-Six-Four."

"He's supposed to be maintaining radio silence." Abelev growled. "What the hell does he want?"

The tech's face was a mask of confusion.

"That's just it, Sir, I'm not quite sure. He keeps saying something about a stow-away…"

"A _what_? Give me that!" Abelev snatched the headset away from the tech.

"Abelev here. This had better be good, Warmonger…"

The swarthy major listened for a moment. The pilot's voice on the other end of the line sounded as if he were on the verge of a panic attack. As Abelev listened, and the full extent of the situation became apparent, he could see why. Even he went a bit pale. The muscles in his jaw bunched up. _Never a good sign_, Brambley thought.

"Brambley, is Administrator Jennings around?" Abelev enquired quietly.

"No, Sir, she's currently over-seeing construction of the Eastern trenches. Will I go get her?"

"No, no that won't be necessary, Lieutenant. In fact, try keep and her there for as long as you can. Whatever you do, don't let her near the ops centre."

"Will do, Sir." Brambley said, before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "May I ask why, Sir?"

Abelev shook his head, looking every bit his forty-five years of age.

"Trust me, Bram: you don't wanna know."

* * *

Aboard the _Malicious Intent_, the Battle Net was alive with confusion. The _Hunter's Twilight _was down, and Traeltarus' blood was up.

"Open the starboard hatch!" The Chieftain boomed, hefting his fuel rod cannon.

Stepping out into the rushing wind, his exposed fur ruffled by the fearsome breeze, Traeltarus held onto a support strut and regarded his prey. Far below him, weaving desperately to avoid the Phantom's juddering plasma batteries, was a primitive human troop transport. Their puny rifles pinged harmlessly off the Phantom's hull.

Humans. Unexpected, bothersome weaklings, the Jiralhanae had been unaware of their presence on this planet until now. The cowards had taken advantage of this fact, and bloodied the Chieftain's forces because of it. The insult was intolerable.

No matter, their end would be swift.

Traeltarus swung his fuel rod cannon to bear. He adjusted his aim, giving the human vehicle a sizeable lead. With a belly-laugh he opened fire, watching as the scorching green plasma fire tore columns of fire up across the canyon floor. The human vehicle burst through the initial salvo, visibly shaken. Their destruction was only a matter of time. Still chortling, Traeltarus continued to fire. He opened a link to the Battle Net on all channels, wide-band. Even the Sangheili overheard the instructions.

"All units, converge on the Humans! Rejoice! We have new prey to slaughter!"

* * *

As he prepped the Pelican for take-off, Perry did his best to ignore the sullen eyes burning tiny holes in the back of his helmet. The pilot had strapped Sarah into one of the flight seats, after giving the little girl a severe telling off. Or at least he thought was a severe telling off, at any rate. By his own admission, Perry was useless with kids.

The engines whined as they began to cycle up. Perry made a point of double checking the Pelican's weapon systems. Howard's men were roughly fifteen minutes out, and the pilot intended to cover them every step of the way before effecting a scoop and scoot.

"You all settled back in there?" Perry called out to his passengers.

"Good to go!" Corporal Myers shot back. The other marines flashed their thumbs up, eager to get in the fight.

Sarah didn't answer. She was too busy fuming.

"Here we go…" Perry said, easing the flight stick back.

With a flare of engine wash, Warmonger rose into the sky, weapons primed.

"Humans, here?" Rukth stepped over an exhausted Unngoy as he approached the Shipmaster. "This changes matters entirely."

"Quite so." Vtan agreed thoughtfully. "But perhaps this development might be pressed to our advantage."

The Special Operations Sangheili narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, voice laden with suspicion.

"In the ten cycles we have served together, have I ever failed you?" Vtan countered, returning Rukth's gaze openly.

"No, Shipmaster. Never."

"So you trust my judgement, Brother?" Vtan continued.

"Without question."

"Then trust me now when I say this. Take my warriors; scatter them throughout the valleys and gulleys. Use every nook, occupy every cranny. Avoid conflict whenever possible."

Vtan was checking the power supply of the plasma rifle fastened to his thigh. Satisfied, he slapped it twice in a good luck-gesture. "Await further instructions on my private frequency."

"Understood." Rukth bowed his head obediantly. "The shadows themselves will not know we are here."

"I would expect no less, friend Rukth." Vtan smiled. He held up a hand. "One other thing - a request, if you will.

"Name it."

"Leave me three of your best men."

Rukth nodded, pointing at Zerat and two others.

"Escort the Shipmaster. Give your lives, if necessary."

"Your will be done, Brother!" the three black armoured Sangheili replied in chorus. Rukth nodded and turned back to the white-plated Shipmaster. He stepped forward, concerned.

"What is it you are planning, old friend?"

Vtan test-activated his energy sword. It gleamed hungrily in the dim half-light of the enclosed canyon. Satisfied, he snapped it off again. The Shipmaster then cast a look over in the direction the second Phantom had headed. His voice was distant, wistful almost.

"Something I could never have imagined doing, one month ago."

With that, the Shipmaster turned and rushed off deeper into the valley. His three ebony body-guards hurried after him, and were soon lost to the shadows of the looming cliffs.

Rukth regard the twinned pair of Mgalekgolo standing beside him, trying to gauge their views on their Shipmaster's plan. They simply shrugged back at him, their armoured plates clanking heavily with the gesture. The Special Operations officer turned to address the Sangheili and Unngoy gathered around him.

"You heard the Shipmaster! All warriors, disperse, and await my signal! May the grace of our ancestors be with you, for surely the False-Hierarchs' is not!"


	12. Salvation

Staff-Sergeant Raymond Howard wasn't prone to panicking. An experienced vet, he had served under Major Abelev for most of his career. He never questioned orders, and always saw them through to the end. _Always keep a cool head_, his father had told him, _no matter what_. He had built his career on that simple principle, and that same principle had seen him survive where many others wouldn't. Some called it luck, but Howard had always thought different. Now, he was beginning to rethink his attitude.

Now, he could use all the luck he could get.

Thick fuel rod rounds hammered into the path ahead of him. They exploded in gouts of green flame, pelting the windshield with a mist of charred dirt and smoking pebbles. The transport's wheels churned up billowing clouds of black soot as they powered across the tortured valley floor. The driver, Private Hines, recited a mantra of endless swear words under his breath. The shadow of the Phantom loomed over them, hungry and impatient. Plasma fire licked from its turrets, stabbing at their rear tyres. It was almost toying with them.

It was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

"Fireteam Alpha-One, this is Kilo-Six-Four, do you copy over?" The speaker in his helmet squawked.

"Uh, copy that, Warmonger." Howard answered, holding his helmet-mic steady with his free hand. "Receiving you loud and clear."

Howard had to strain his ears to hear over the deafening explosions bracketing the battered warthog. One of their tyres was a on fire.

"Keep heading due north of your position, there's a clearing about two minutes out from your location. Evac is in position and awaiting your arrival, over."

"I'm not sure we're going to be able to make it, Warmonger." Howard flinched as a fist sized rock was thrown up against the windshield, sending a spider web of cracks across the glass. "We're taking a serious amount of fire here, over."

After a moment's hesitation, Perry's voice came back over the com channel.

"Ten-four, Alpha-One. Sit tight: Warmonger is inbound."

* * *

Traeltarus was losing patience. The human pilot had skill - that much was certain. For two whole minutes, he had deftly avoided the _Malicious Intent's_ fusillade, doggedly defying death with each passing second. Traeltarus tightened his grip on the support strut and ordered the Phantom to overtake their stubborn prey. The bulbous landing craft powered forward with a burst of its engines.

The Chieftain turned to the ten other Jiralhanae crouched within the Phantom's drop bay.

"Prepare to disembark!" he growled, "We shall head them off and gun them down ourselves!"

They snuffled eagerly, racking the slide on their brute shots. Some tightened ragged bandoliers of clinking ammunition, re-adjusting their helmets as they prepared themselves for the imminent combat. The Unngoy manning the hatch turrets brought their weapons up to full power. They chattered to themselves giddily. They were ready.

Traeltarus gave the order.

"Attack! Now!"

Howard's jaw fell open. The Covenant ship, its patience clearly eroded, had zoomed down into the valley right in front of them. It swung about on its axis, presenting its profile. A Grunt manning a side turret cackled and unleashed a scintillating storm of plasma fire across the warthog's bonnet. Armour plating peeled away like so much tissue paper as the shots sliced home. The windshield exploded in a blizzard of flying glass. Like a thousand burning knives, the shards sprayed inward. Hines shrieked as the fragments cut deep into his eyes. Howling in agony, his ragged hands clawed at his ruined face. It only served to drive the shrapnel deeper.

Hines let go of the steering wheel.

The vehicle veered to the side, clipped a boulder, and flipped completely. It bounced and rolled with a sickening crunch, throwing its occupants free of their restraints and hurled them mercilessly against the ground below. Most died instantly. Howard's life was saved by his helmet, which nearly cracked in two as his head jerked forward into the dashboard. He lolled about, unconscious. One of the vehicles wheels detached from the wreckage entirely, rolling on its own volition for several metres.

Had Howard been awake, he would have heard the distant whine of Warmonger's thrusters, drifting ever closer.

* * *

Perry brought the Pelican over the next rise of canyon wall, his targeting reticule green-lit on the HUD. He barely had time to digest the scene in front of him: the rising smoke, the crumpled warthog, the lurking Phantom. He didn't have to. His pilot's instincts took over. With a feral grin, he clamped his finger tightly against the flight-stick's trigger.

The drop-ship's twin-linked chain guns chattered as the rounds chewed deeply into the spine of the surprised Phantom. Several cut straight through the ship altogether. One Grunt on the starboard turret simply vaporised in a puff of orange mist. The pilot saw one of the Brutes hurl themselves clear of the crippled vessel. Redoubling his efforts, Perry raked the Phantom with a second salvo.

The Phantom didn't explode. Instead, its engines simply belched out a thick belt of smoke, and the gutted craft fell from the sky with all the grace of a cannon ball. Satisfied, Perry lowered the ship in for an inspection run. He keyed the com as he was about to set the Pelican down a hundred metres south of the warthog's wreckage. Try as he might, he couldn't quite keep the satisfaction from his voice.

"This is Warmonger to Control. Scratch one Phantom."

He had just about to un-tab the com-switch when Sarah began to scream.

Perry looked up. Hurtling toward the cockpit was a wall of green fire.

He didn't have time to think. Perry grabbed the flight stick.

* * *

Vtan watched from the shadows as the Alpha-Jiralhanae surged toward the human ship, its fuel rod cannon spitting angry death. The human vessel jerked to one side, its rear engines ploughing into the rock face behind it with a sickening crunch.

The pilot's quick reflexes were both the dropship's salvation and its undoing. The Chieftain's missiles sailed cleanly through the air, exploding harmlessly against the far canyon wall. Unfortunately, the ship's rear engines had been crunched to twisted balls of useless metal. For a second, the ship wobbled precariously in the air, its remaining engines whining furiously as the ship struggled valiantly to stay aloft. The Chieftain howled in bloodlust, and unleashed a second salvo.

This time the Alpha's shots bit deeply into their prey. The port wing was ripped away and the Pelican rammed into the dirt in a spray of blinding sand. Its engines had failed entirely. The Chieftain threw down his weapon and began to beat his mighty fists against his chest. He roared in triumph. The sound made Vtan's blood boil.

Alarmed that their leader's was isolated on the ground, the third Phantom swooped in to support. It touched down, and began to disgorge its troops, before rising off into the sky once more. Twelve more Brutes rushed forward to unite with their Chieftain, adding their own coarse voices to the bellowing victory call. After a moment, the Brutes fanned out, stalking toward the downed Pelican. The hunt was almost concluded.

"Get in position, Brothers." Vtan warned, priming his plasma rifle, "The time for vengeance is at hand."

* * *

Perry awoke to the sound of gun-fire. Through the constant ringing in his ears, he could make out the staccato crack of a BR-55 battle-rifle, interspersed with the heavier thunking sound of the aliens' more primitive weaponry. He shook his head groggily, and checked his watch. Its face was cracked.

14:02:32 was frozen on the display. He'd been out for all of three minutes.

Perry popped his restraints, drew his side-arm and looked about for Sarah. The little girl's seat was empty. He found her cowering in the equipment locker, her hood pulled tightly over her head. Traumatised, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, saying nothing. Unsure of what to do, Perry left her there for now, and scurried down the rear ramp to join the battle outside.

The Pelican had carved a shallow trench into the valley floor, and it was from there that the marines effected their resistance. The Brutes advanced on their position steadily, ducking behind boulders, bushes and scattered debris. Organised and efficient, they took turns darting from cover to cover. Perry took a deep breath, and dove down into the trench.

Private Hughes was already dead. A series of four-inch spikes had driven deep into his chest. His body lay twisted at the top of the trench-lip. With a sickened look, Perry noticed that Hughes' leg still twitched spastically. Occasionally, stray rounds would slam into the corpse, jostling it about like some grotesque puppet.

Not wishing to meet the same fate, Perry scrunched as low as he could as he bellied forward to where the three remaining marines had taken cover. They had spread themselves as far as they could along the trench line, in a desperate bid to dilute the Brutes' extraordinary firepower. Dug in and determined, the marines peppered the enemy with return fire, slinging grenades over the trench lip whenever the opportunity arose.

So far, they had taken down three of the advancing shock troops. Their sand-drenched bodies sprawled in the dirt.

"Glad you could join us, flyboy!" Corporal Myers grinned, tossing him Hughes' MA5C assault rifle. Perry caught it deftly. "Know how that thing works?"

"Vague idea!" Perry replied, scrambling up to the trench lip. At thirty-two shots, the ammo-counter read full. Perry realised Hughes hadn't even gotten a chance to fire a single shot.

Hands shaking, Perry flipped the safety from stand-by to active. As the air around him buzzed with lethal metal, the pilot desperately tried to recall his the basics of Fundamental and Preparatory, all those years ago. He sighted the rifle, resting it on the sandy lip in front of him.

_Select target, aim, fire. Select target, aim, fire…_

Perry triggering a short burst at an advancing brute. The assault rifle juddered in his hands as it blurted angrily, banging violently against his shoulder. The massive alien roared in indignation, its shields flaring. Undeterred, it continued charging.

"Point and shoot, right?" Perry yelled out, feeling decidedly unsure about himself.

"More like spray 'n pray!" Private Long corrected, demonstrating by unleashing a torrent of shots which sent a trio of Brutes diving for cover. Long turned to say something else, but then the trench lip erupted under a withering hail of explosive grenades. Long vanished along with most of his cover. When the smoke cleared, only a bloodied ankle and a smoking boot remained.

Horrified and enraged, Perry re-sighted and fired a more sustained burst. The same Brute he had clipped before roared in pain as its shields collapsed and the rounds stitched across its chest. This time, Perry didn't release the trigger. Toppling forward, the monster spun to the dirt and lay still.

Elated, Perry went to target another Brute. Lining it up in his sights, he pulled the trigger. All he received in return was a dry click.

"Shit, I need a reload!" Perry cried, panicking. Myers didn't even look up from his scope as he tossed the pilot another clip. Perry's hands trembled as he fumbled to slide the new clip home.

"Fire in the hole!" Private First Class Price roared, ripping a grenade from his webbing and flinging it in the direction of the advancing pack. Two of the beasts, too slow to react, were consumed by the savage cloud of shrapnel. Price took aim with his rifle and resumed firing.

They gave a good account of themselves, all in all. As the Jiralhanae pack advanced, the UNSC Marines demonstrated remarkable discipline and commendable marksmanship until the very end. On an individual basis, the marines were woefully outclassed. With the average Jiralhanae towering at an average height of 2.6 metres, the Brutes were stronger, more resilient and - if that wasn't enough - they were equipped with personal shields. Not only did that, the pack's blood was up, ensuring that they shrugged off all but the heaviest of injuries. Several times the marines made shots that should have killed an average opponent.

Sadly, the Jiralhanae were no average opponents. That fully a third of the creatures had been gunned down before they swarmed the marines' position spoke volumes of the marine's courage, tenacity and valour in the face of overwhelming odds. It was Fire-team Alpha-One's proudest moment.

It was also to be their last.

Corporal Myers made a priceless headshot before a return round removed most of head above the nose. He collapsed without a sound. Private Price, courageous to the last, charged forward as the enemy leapt over the trench lip, choosing to meet them head on. His courage was legendary. Alas, it proved to be a futile. His shots rebounded harmlessly off a Brute Major's shields before the massive alien struck him down with a single murderous swipe of its barbed cannon.

Perry's assault rifle clicked dry once more, and he flung it aside, drawing his side-arm. He racked the slide, and bellowed a nonsensical war cry at the top of his lungs. The pistol barked angrily. A carpet of shell casings pooled at his feet.

He emptied a full magazine into the face of the oncoming chieftain, before the massive beast guffawed and swatted him aside with dismissive backhand. He hadn't so much as dented the Alpha's shields. Perry tumbled back into the trench, winded. The remaining Jiralhanae, seven in total, lined the trench lip in a semi-circle around him, back-lit by the blazing sun. They stared down at him, red eyes glittering balefully.

_I have to keep them distracted away from the lander_, Perry decided. _Better they toy with me than find the kid._

Perry reached up and pulled off his helmet. Screaming, he hurled it at the Brute Chieftain. Perry rose to his feet, standing tall and proud. In reality, he was scared shitless. With slow finality Perry drew his combat knife. Bracing himself for the end, the pilot crouched low into his best imitation of a fighting stance. Truth be told, he hadn't the slightest clue what he was doing, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least cut the bastard.

_Last stand time_, he thought grimly.

Sensing Perry's defiance, the Chieftain turned and handed his fuel rod cannon to one of his shock-troops. Leisurely stepping down into the trench, Traeltarus guffawed as he took in his opponent's desperate appearance. The Chieftain cracked his knuckles in anticipation. He was easily twice the pilot's height.

"I shall use your bones to pick my teeth, human." Traeltarus promised.

"Well then I hope I give you indigestion. Prick." Perry shot back petulantly.

Before Perry had a chance to kick himself for choosing the corniest last words in the history of mankind, a dazzling ball of hissing plasma sailed through the air overhead.

Announcing its presence with a cheerful beep, it latched itself onto the faceplate of the Brute minding the Chieftain's cannon, whereupon it began emitting a high-pitched whine. The Brute howled in outrage, dropping the cannon as it panicked. He desperately tried to tear the keening ball free. The Brute only succeeded in having his hands meld to the ball. His leathery skin bubbled and hissed as it was melted by the searing heat.

Then he exploded.

The result was devastating. Two things aggravated matters. Firstly, the Jiralhanae shock-troops were laden down with stacks of volatile ammunition so typical of their race. Secondly, the fuel rod cannon, which had been discarded just below the initial explosion, took the force of the blast. The chain reaction vaporised four of the Brutes instantly, and flicked the others into the air. Perry only survived because Traeltarus bore the full brunt of the explosion.

Miraculously, the Chieftain had survived. Traeltarus toppled forward onto one knee, roaring in agony. Most of his back armour had been sheered away. His flesh hung down in ragged strips. Enraged with pain, Traeltarus ripped his sloping head-crest free, and leapt toward Perry. Perry's ankle caught on a rock and he tumbled to the ground. The Chieftain screamed in fury, linked his fingers together into a single fist, and raised them high above his head.

A shadow darted overhead.

All Perry caught was an impression of gleaming white armour, as a massive Elite leapt on top of the shrieking berserker. The Brute lashed out with a roar, swatting the Elite aside. Not losing momentum, the newcomer rolled smoothly into a crouch and – without pausing - lunged again. The Chieftain swung his mighty fists once more, only this time, his opponent wasn't there.

The white Elite ducked under the swing, and then counter-attacked. There was a glittering flash, a blur too fast to follow. To Perry, it looked as though the Elite had simply swept past the towering Chieftain without stopping. For a moment, nobody breathed.

Gurgling, Pack-leader Traeltarus slid apart in two halves, neatly bisected down the middle.

The remaining Brutes howled in anguish, rushing to avenge their fallen leader. A trio of perfectly placed energy beams lanced out from somewhere unseen, striking each of them down within a heartbeat. Within seconds, it was all over.

The alien turned toward him. Its energy sword, as lethal as it was sleek, hummed menacingly. Perry scrambled for Myers' discarded battle-rifle. A heavy hoof landed on his wrist, pinning him in place.

The air above him rippled and blurred. Two other Elites shimmered into view around the trench lip, their armour a deep black. With a panicked yelp, Perry realised he was surrounded. His limit reached, Perry valiantly fought the urge to soil himself.

"Be at peace, human." The white alien's mandibles, barely visible around the sides of an impassive armoured faceplate, twitched strangely as he peered down at Perry. "This is not your day to die."


	13. Fury

"_At first we didn't know what was going on. Not at first. But what we did know was - before the main shit-storm kicked off, the Major dropped our boys into a whole other mess, deep in the canyons west of Horizon…"_

_- Communications Officer Joseph Williams, ONI Debrief Ref 33145 "Accounts of the Crassus Campaign - A Collection."_

* * *

"This is Warmonger to Control. Scratch One Phantom."

Then a high-pitched scream. Young, female. Then a hiss of static, then nothing.

The operations centre fell silent.

"Time elapsed since Warmonger's last transmission?" Abelev asked.

"Sixteen minutes, Sir."

Abelev removed his officer's cap, running a hand over the smooth pate of his shaved scalp. He turned to Brambley, eyes solemn.

"Bring Strongarm home," the major's voice was taut, "I won't see more of my men wasted."

There was a flurry of activity as the orders were passed along. Stepping closer, Brambley lowered his voice. His question was for the major's ears only.

"Sir, the stowaway… who was it?" Brambley questioned. Abelev didn't answer, not directly. His next command was addressed to the communications officer.

"Inform Administrator Jennings that her daughter is missing, presumed dead."

* * *

Perry didn't move. He didn't dare to even so much as blink. The white armoured alien had released his wrist from beneath its massive hoof, but still Perry remained pressed tightly against the ground, his fingers dug deep into the dirt. He was threatening to become one with the sand entirely. The Shipmaster's escorts warbled deeply in amusement.

"Cease your wortling!" Vtan snapped, before softening his voice, "Listen well, Human; if I wished you dead, I assure you would not be breathing still."

Perry opened his mouth to reply. One of the Elites cut him off.

"Shipmaster, behind you!"

It was a Brute. The beast had been thrown down into the shadows of the Pelican when the plasma grenade had detonated. It was a junior warrior, wearing only the lightest of armour. Its hair was slick with blood, and its fur had been burnt away in places, revealing large swathes of ragged, ugly flesh. Its helmet was missing, and a mixture of pain and wild desperation blazed in its eyes. The Elites swung their plasma rifles to bear, but froze.

Clutched in its paws, kicking and screaming, was Sarah Jennings.

"Shoot… and the Human child dies with me!" The Brute warned tersely. Pressed against Sarah's temple was a Type-25 Spiker Carbine. The barrel was bigger than her entire head. Slung underneath the weapon's muzzle were a twinned set of barbed fangs. One of them nicked against the girls neck, drawing a sliver of blood. Too terrified to even scream, Sarah squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered. Her adventure had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.

"Hold your fire," Shipmaster Arume ordered, forestalling his troops with a clenched fist. "No harm is to come to the Human child."

The Elites bristled in impotent fury, but did as they were ordered. They did not lower their weapons.

"Hiding behind younglings?" One of the Elites spat, "Have you gutless curs no honour?"

The Jiralhanae bared its fangs smugly. "Typical Sangheili drivel; crippled by your own codes."

The Brute seemed to have regained some confidence, now that it was seemingly in control of the situation. It began to back away from the trench slowly. Its eyes never left the Elites. In return, the Elites weapons never left the Brute. The Spiker was still pressed tightly against Sarah's head.

Vtan did not seem perturbed. Quite the opposite, out of all the warriors present, he seemed by far the most tranquil. Like a patient hunter, he was waiting. For the right moment, the right angle. The Jiralhanae stepped clear of the broken pelican's shadow, into the open sunlight of Crassus' twin suns.

_There. _

Without moving, Vtan whispered two words into the Sangheili battle-net.

"Zerat. _Now_."

A hissing lance of lethal energy stabbed out from the shadows. The beam passed neatly over Vtan's shoulder, slicing through the Brute's skull in a puff of pink mist. The hole was cleanly cauterized, though large enough to see through. At first, the Brute didn't even realise it was dead. Finally, the Spiker slipped from its fingers with a clatter. Then the rest of the Jiralhanae followed suit, collapsing in a boneless heap. Sarah prised herself free from its leathery fingers, scrambling as far away from the body as she could.

Zerat Omdolo shimmered into view behind Vtan. The Shipmaster did not look around as he spoke.

"Flawless shooting as ever, Brother." he mused, "Your reputation is not exaggerated."

"I would have fired sooner, but for fear of clipping you, Shipmaster" Zerat replied, patting his beam rifle affectionately.

Sarah looked up at these five armoured giants. Unlike the hairy ones, they did not smell of filth and sweat. Instead, it was a sweeter smell, of unguents and lacquer. She wrinkled her nose at the foreign stench. The white one with the sloping headcrest knelt down and scooped something off the ground.

It was Sarah's sketch pad. It had fallen from her grasp as she struggled in the Brute's clutches. The wind had ruffled its pages open. Her picture of the fiery ship flapped in the breeze, a jagged collection of purples, blues and fiery reds. Vtan's eyes pored over it in curiosity. His massive hands gently traced the contours of his old ship.

He twitched his mandibles in a wistful smile. Then he looked up.

"You are a gifted artist, Youngling." Vtan rose to his feet and approached her, before lowering himself into a stooping crouch. "Amongst my people, such beings are cherished."

He held out the sketchpad to her. She eyed it suspiciously.

"I believe this belongs to you." Vtan prompted gently.

Sarah gingerly took it from him, holding it tightly. She continued to stare at this giant warrior and his ominous bodyguard, though more in fascination rather than fear. Vtan patted her on the shoulder, before rising to his feet and striding back toward the others. Perry still hadn't moved. His eyes tracked Vtan with all the tenacity of a target lock. The Shipmaster's shadow fell across him.

The Shipmaster extended a massive hand down toward Perry. Its skin was a deep black tinged with a metallic grey hue. Like the rest of the Elite's body, it was tautly corded with wiry muscle. The hand dwarfed Perry's own. When he spoke, Vtan's voice was deep and resonant, serene almost.

"On your feet, human. We must make haste. The Jiralhanae are many things, but complacent is not one of them. More Phantoms will come."

The Elite's soothing tone would have comforted Perry, had the Elite not just systematically butchered a Brute Chieftain right before his very eyes. Its pearlescent armour, with its sloping helmet and angular edges, was spattered with crimson-purple ichor. It was not a comforting sight.

Still, having little choice, Perry accepted the Elite's proffered hand. The Elite plucked him back onto his feet, like an adult lifting up a small toy. Vtan turned to his Elites.

"Prepare to move out. We have dallied too much already."

"We are taking the humans with us?" One of the Elites blurted in disbelief.

"Indeed."

"But the humans are our enemies!" another Elite bristled, "This course of action is shameful, unthinkable!"

To the Vtan's surprise, Zerat answered for him.

"Was it _shameful_ or _unthinkable_ when the Prophets murdered our High Council?" the marksman brayed, "Was it _shameful_ or _unthinkable_ when the Brutes fired upon our ship? Slew our Brothers and hunted our crew like so much vermin? Perhaps you may have forgotten, Brothers, but I for one know who my enemies are!"

The other three Elites spluttered indignantly in protest, but Vtan's next words silenced them. He did not shout, or order them, or even raise his voice. Instead, he was quiet, introspective. He spoke slowly, and with great presence, his voice strained by massive emotion. In his hands he held Traeltarus' discarded head-crest.

"In these dark times, nothing is as it once was. The Covenant is no more. The Prophets - who we unswervingly protected for countless generations - have become our mortal enemies, calling for our extermination. High Charity itself has fallen. Even now, the Arbiter himself carries the Mark of Shame, the brand of an outcast."

Vtan paused. All those present, human and Sangheili, watched him intently. The Shipmaster tossed the fallen Chieftain's head-crest aside.

"Nothing is certain anymore. But - like Zerat - I know who my enemies are. The Jiralhanae are dogs: honourless swine worthy of neither respect nor mercy. If to unite with the humans against them is to brand us all as traitors in the eyes of our people, then so be it."

Vtan voice grew even lower. A brittle whisper, it trembled with thunderous rage.

"Anything to repay our blood-debt against those who would betray us."

* * *

Two hours later, Pack-Leader Malwreckus strode onto the bridge of the _Implacable Duty_, flanked by two gold armoured bodyguards. He announced his presence by striking the pommel of his Gravity Hammer against the deck. Shipmaster Torikus shifted his grav-throne about slowly, regarding his lieutenant through narrowed eyes.

After a moment, the Shipmaster's voice broke the awkward silence.

"Well, what is it? Has Traeltarus routed the Sangheili filth?"

Malwreckus cleared his throat delicately. He was glad to be beyond arm's reach of his commander.

"High-Chieftain, our forces have just returned from the surface. There has been…" Malwreckus chose his words carefully,"... something of a situation."

"Do not waste my time with hesitation, Malwreckus." Torikus warning was stern, "Loosen your tongue, or rest assured I shall have it removed."

"My Lord." Malwreckus bowed apologetically, before stepping forward. "Our Kig-yar scouts found this some distance into the canyons west of the downed Sangheili cruiser."

For the first time, Torikus noticed what Malwreckus carried in the crook of his arm. It was Traeltarus' head-crest. Its copper surface was notched and pitted, the smooth metal made coarse by a thick film of cloying sand. The helmet's severed power cables dangled mournfully toward the deck.

"I regret to say it, High-Chieftain, but your kin has fallen in battle."

Torikus leapt down from his command throne. With howl of anguish he picked it up, casting it across the bridge. It flew over the head of a hapless Unngoy, who fled with a shrill squeal. Torikus charged forward with frightening speed, encircling Malwreckus' throat with his paws.

Though Malwreckus was, by Jiralhanae standards, huge and powerful, Torikus was easily a head taller, and brawnier to boot. Malwreckus gasped as the Shipmaster's crimson eyes burned into his own.

"First my vessel, then my own flesh and blood? Again the Sangheili dogs insult me!"

Torikus flung Malwreckus aside, pacing hungrily, agitated. "Scramble our troops, scour the desert. Leave no stone unturned! No excuses, I want those heretics found!"

Malwreckus climbed to his feet, massaging his throat.

"Understood, High Chieftain," he rasped, "There is something else, however…"

"What is it?"

"Our surviving forces detected a number of human bodies scattered amongst those who had fallen. We have widened our sensor's search parameters, and they have confirmed this story. There are humans on Crassus, an entire colony's worth."

"Humans?" Torikus was incredulous, giddy with fury, "They too seek to deny the will of the Prophets? Hah, so be it! Malwreckus, marshal our forces, find the heretics, and ready our troops for a full scale invasion. Humans, Elites - it makes no difference. Wipe them out, every mother's son. Leave not a soul standing."

"Your will be done, High Chieftain." Malwreckus bowed, moving to depart.

"And another thing, Malwreckus," Torikus' voice stopped the other Chieftain in his tracks. "Failure in this task shall be met with the highest censure. If you disappoint me, I shall see to it that the Kig-yar bathe in your entrails for weeks to come. Am I understood?"

"Completely, High-Chieftain." Malwreckus mashed his fist against his breastplate. "The heretics shall tremble before our might. Of that, you have my word."

Torikus' smiled icily.

"Splendid. Now go and bring the heretics a war they shall never forget."


	14. Coiling the Trap

On a viewing platform overlooking the starport's hardpan, Administrator Jennings watched a city become a fortress.

It was almost dusk, and Sergeant Murphy was running his third rotation of the day. He had stripped down to his vest, and he confidently strode up and down in front of the assembled militia. This time, there was no trouble with the PA. A handsome man with green eyes, dark hair and an easy-going manner, Murphy could have stepped straight from a UNSC recruitment poster, were it not for the ridiculous grin which was constantly plastered across his face. He was manic, almost preternaturally hyper. For once, however, his boundless energy and straight talking attitude worked in his favour.

In short, the colonists loved him.

Murphy proved to be a rallying force for the militia, a face with whom they could identify. Administrator Jennings, a born politician, had realised his potential all too well. She was the one who had suggested he drill them without wearing his helmet, something which - rather incongruously for one so sociable - he was very fond of doing. Jennings had to admit, she found that conflicting aspect of the commando's character quite charming.

Removing his helmet was a small touch, but it lent the lessons a more personable atmosphere, ensuring that the crowds looked forward to their training rotations, rather than view them as yet another thankless chore. The commando's popularity had gotten to a point where a group of the colonists, comprised of one hundred of the colony's most experienced trackers and hunters, had dubbed themselves "Murphy's Militia".

_If only I could achieve the same enthusiasm with the rest of the preparations_, she sighed.

Today's lesson? Fire-arms operation and maintenance: a "how to" guide. Slung under Murphy's arm was a bullpup assault rifle. It was a sleek weapon, but decidedly dated compared to the ones used by the marines. Age and excessive use had worn its finish considerably. It clearly once belonged to Murphy, due to the gaudy Irish flag stencilled across its side. Clearing his throat theatrically, he held it up for all to see.

"Rightio, lads and lasses, allow me to introduce you to my old friend, the MA5B." he swept his fingers along the weapon's side, like a salesman showing off a particularly luxurious product.

"Let me start off by saying I'm a big fan of it, and - once you get your hands on one - I daresay you'll be too. It's 87.6 centimetres of pure sex, and fires on three settings: fully automatic, fully automatic and - _just for a bit of originality_ - fully automatic. May I suggest to those of you with itchy trigger fingers that you restrain yourselves to using short-bursts, unless you absolutely have to. Not only 'cause your accuracy's gonna go to shite, but there's also the ammo factor to consider. At 900 rpm, you'll be running empty faster than my wallet on shore-leave. And what did we learn the first day?"

"Against the Covenant, a trooper without ammunition is a dead trooper." they droned in unison. They had heard that line more times than they could count.

"Now you're getting it!" Murphy beamed, before continuing.

"Until recently, the MA5B was the solid workhorse of the UNSC, but it's since been replaced by its older, nastier bastard cousin - the rather imaginatively titled MA5C. Unfortunately, resources are tight, and our automated manufactories aren't exactly up to date, so like it or not, you're all going to have to make do with this model. The main difference between the two is the clip size - you get to play with 60 rounds, whereas the Marines have to make do with 32. On the flip-side, the Marines' variant packs more punch, and are probably more inclined to hit something at ranges exceeding fifty metres."

And so the lesson continued; the emphasis being on the importance of fire-discipline, as well as the need for the militia to focus their fire as one. What they would lack in accuracy, they would make up for by sheer weight of numbers. It was what Major Abelev called the S_pam 'n Slam_ Doctrine. "I don't care how strong their shields are," he had said, "Let's see the bastards stand up to two hundred assault rifles on full auto at point blank range."

The weakness to this plan, of course, was its reliance on the assumption that the Covenant would choose to assault on the ground. The ranking Navy officer, Song, had raised the point that the Covenant could very well choose to simply glass them from orbit. Abelev, ever the optimist, simply replied with a glib "well then at least that'll settle things quickly."

Nevertheless, shelters were hollowed out in the mines below Horizon, and all non-combatants were evacuated into them, along with a generous amount of supplies. The rest of the colony, ostensibly all able-bodied souls above the age of seventeen, got on with the task at hand.

One of the most significant of the changes to befall Horizon happened not inside the city, but rather outside it. Abelev had ordered a massive network of trenches, redoubts and earthworks dug around the exterior curtain wall. The scale of the work was unprecedented. Once the shelters had been fabricated, construction equipment and heavy drilling teams were hastily procured from the depths of the mining facilities and given newfound purpose. The refineries were all but bled dry. No expense was spared. Economists estimated that the entire resource-cost of the operation shortened the colony's lifespan by thirty years. Only the gravity of the situation, coupled with Jenning's adroitness as a negotiator, saw that the ambitious plan came to fruition. In the short term, the city's defences flourished.

In the long-term, Abelev's preparations doomed Horizon's future as an economically-viable colony.

Inside the city, even more changes were made. Horizon quickly became every infantry commander's worst nightmare. Every street corner became a fortified cluster of sandbags, every rooftop became a pillbox. The city's rail network, for so long the main means of transport available to the populace, became a weapon unto itself. Train cars were reinforced with thick sheets of iron plating, evolving into mobile artillery platforms. Their roofs were removed, to allow open space for crude howitzers to be hastily repositioned wherever they were needed most. Like all of the preparations, the cannons themselves lacked sophistication, but more than made up for it in raw functionality. It was a shining example of the colonists' practical desire to survive, at any cost. They were pragmatic people, and the weapons they produced - all exposed bolts and visible gears - reflected that. Warfare has little tolerance for visual aesthetic.

This mentality was displayed elsewhere.

There was no clearer example of it than the thick supply pipelines which dominated most of the colony. Critical to the functioning of the city, each of them had been laminated with a second skin of industrial-strength, flame-retardant insulation, and then coated under an additional surface layer of reinforced concrete. Spotter teams and gleaming support weapons blistered across the surface of the pipes, shaded by the thick tracks above. The gantries of the many refineries became warrens for machine gun nests and hidden marksmen.

The positioning of these gun emplacements was overseen by the marines of Bravo Platoon, who were responsible for the coordination of the defences within the city walls. Their extensive expertise was crucial. They chose the best defilade positions, opting for sites which emphasised generous kill-zones and concealment in equal measure. Charlie Platoon, under Lieutenant Brambley, had the harder job. They were to oversee the external defences, and ensure that the militia lines held at all costs. The two platoons would rotate in this task, having two days on, two days off. Work-crews laboured long into the night.

Like a bear-trap, Horizon was simplistically brutal; coiled, and ready to spring.


	15. The Endless March

The sun was sinking in the sky, and David Perry had never felt so self-consciously _human_. Himself and Sarah were walking hand in hand in the middle of a snaking convoy of Separatist refugees. All around them, chittering Grunts jostled past one another, jockeying to get ahead in the column. The diminutive runts gave the humans a wide berth, not wishing to earn their Shipmaster's wrath.

Vtan had moved up ahead, after nodding a brief farewell.

Initially, the two humans had drawn stares from the Elites. It was unnerving, to have so many armoured giants blink at you in quiet curiosity. What made it worse was that if you made eye contact, they didn't look away. If anything, it only led to the world's most intimidating (albeit short-lived) staring contest. After a moment's deliberation, some would warble a greeting, in their deep, resonant voices, before moving off on their way. Hours had past, and they had long since been dismissed as a novel distraction. For the most part, they were ignored.

"I'm tired!" Sarah moaned. Perry secretly rolled his eyes, but kept his impatience to himself. This is why he wasn't good with kids. Not that he truly blamed her, mind you: his own legs burned with fatigue. They had been walking for hours now. He would have offered to carry her, but his shoulders ached from where the straps of his survival pack bit deeply into his shoulders, chafing the skin a raw red. He had salvaged as many spare canteens and MREs from the crash-site as he could, and his resourcefulness was proving to be punishing. The weight of the pack was considerable.

Fortunately, Sarah's plight was soon solved. Nearby, the air frizzled, and an Elite shimmered into view right beside them. Perry hated when they did that. It was the marksman, Zerat. His beam rifle was slung across his back, wrapped lovingly in a protective cover. The Elite was taking no chances with the invasive sand, which had somehow already gotten into everything from Perry's boots to his underwear.

"Your legs grow weak from the strain, Youngling?" Zerat inquired solemnly. It was a query, not an insult. Sarah nodded meekly, feeling guilty for having complained so loudly.

"Very well; Shipmaster Arume foresaw this eventuality. Arrangements have been made."

The Elite turned over his shoulder and warbled something in its own language. From further down the line, the ground shook heavily. Perry took a careful step backward. Whatever was approaching, it was big. Perry, as usual, was mistaken: it wasn't big at all. It was gargantuan.

And it wasn't alone.

The Hunter pair surged forward through the crowd, wading through the sea of Grunts with ease. One or two of the little creatures were thoughtlessly batted to one side, where they fell to the dirt griping and scowling. Thick, chitinous plates covered their bodies, and from their backs long swooping spines drooped heavily. Massive silver shields, easily larger than the pilot's entire body, protected most of Hunters' bodies. Perry realised the skin of the creatures below its azure plating was a luminous orange-red. On even closer inspection, the flesh itself seemed to be a tightly interwoven mesh of what looked like… worms. Commendably, Perry managed to hide his disgust.

One of the Hunters laboriously lowered itself onto one of its knees. Head bowed, it extended its shield like a boarding ramp toward Sarah. The intention was clear.

Barely able to contain her delight, Sarah squealed and thumped heavily up the impromptu gangplank, scrambling atop the giant's shoulders. Finding her cheer infectious, the horde of Grunts around her began to join in, cheering and celebrating. It was only Zerat's disapproving scowl that ensured the convoy didn't come to a crashing halt. The Hunters ploughed onward, a cackling Sarah perched on top of them. The Grunts hurried after her, yipping amongst each other excitedly.

"So why make her walk all this time?" Perry asked the sniper curiously. "She's just a child. Surely you could have spared her the trouble."

"The Shipmaster wanted to test your mettle as a species." Zerat replied, clapping Perry roughly on the shoulder. "Fear not: the Youngling lasted three times the expected time."

Perry laughed hard at that despite himself. He turned to say something else, but the Spec Op had already vanished. Unnerved once more, Perry frowned.

"I _hate_ when they do that…" he muttered.

* * *

Somewhere nestled in the heart of Horizon's main commercial district, Administrator Jennings stalked up a richly-furnished corridor.

Her heels clacking angrily against the teak floor. This building was the only non-essential one still being occupied. Certainly, it was the only one which had refused to be fortified. Guilty looking office workers dove out of her way, mumbling apologies and sheepish excuses. She ignored them all, sweeping by with an impatient scowl. It wasn't necessarily their fault, true, but they certainly weren't helping matters by staying here. One of the company executives was refusing to allow his staff to attend the various rotational shifts, stating that it was "fiscally unrealistic to do so in the current market". In the interests of fairness, it was Jennings' job to kick his ass into compliance.

She strode under the massive sign which proclaimed "Traxus Terraforming: _Bringing Tomorrow's World, Today_."

_Yeah, if the price is right_, she thought sourly.

She didn't bother knocking.

"Hey-Hey, looks like my lucky day," Director Michael Cauldwell flashed his most winning smile, "It's not everyday I get the Queen Bee herself in my office. Can't say I've ever had a celebrity in here before. _Love_ the broadcasts, big fan."

"Cut the crap, Cauldwell, you know why I'm here."

Michael Cauldwell was the quintessential corporate slick. His sharp Italian suits, slicked backed hair and spray-on tan reeked of expensive cologne. His teeth were bleached an Arctic white.

The opulence of his attire was matched only by that of his office. Which was probably why he never left it, ever. His bureau, elaborately wrought from hand-carved mahogany, was an altar to corporate excess. The office even insisted on having a 'view', even if the view in question was entirely obscured beneath a perpetual layer of sand. Most of the image was a front, naturally, financed from Cauldwell's own silk-lined pockets. Traxus hadn't been in contact for months, not since the Covenant invasion had breached the Inner Colonies. He was a deluded runt, patronising in the extreme. Nevertheless, Traxus Terraforming remained one of Horizon's key financiers, and - much to Jennings' continuing chagrin - Cauldwell's word still carried weight with its many workers, war or no war.

Which meant she had to squish this leech, quickly. She blinked. Cauldwell was still talking.

"A straight shooter, I like it." Cauldwell arched a rakish eyebrow, his fingers steepled together into a tight pyramid. "Well let me outline our company's position. We at Traxus Terraforming feel that we have already contributed more than our fair share toward your extensive reforms. Which by the way…" he flashed a smug smile, "… are _terrific_."

Jennings blinked, dumbfounded. She wasn't quite sure what to say. Cauldwell leaned back in his plush chair, the leather squeaking audibly. He moulded one of his hands into the approximation of a pistol, pointing it at her.

"Something you wanted to say, shooter?" he asked smoothly.

At that, Jennings exploded.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Are you entirely deluded? This world is about to be invaded, and you still honestly think anybody gives two shits about your company?"

With a vicious swipe, she knocked the neat pile of data cards and quarterly reports off the table. Even the miniature Zen garden wasn't safe. A mist of sand pattered down onto the luxuriously thick carpet, ruining it. Cauldwell's mouth gaped in protest, but Jennings didn't give him the chance to say so much as 'boo'.

"Now you listen to me, you simpering_ fuck_. For two whole days, you've kept your personnel from attending the rotations - that's four thousand potential defenders who aren't receiving training which - by the way -_ they're going to need_ when the Covenant hit - and they _will_ hit, I guarantee it. It ends now, asshole. Right here, today. Got it?"

All pretence of nice-guy gone, Cauldwell narrowed his eyes in a withering stare.

"Now you listen to me, you jumped-up little bitch-" he began.

Before he could continue, a dispassionate, matter-of-fact voice cut him off.

"Step aside, Ma'am."

Fully armoured, Second Lieutenant Joseph Brambley stood framed in the doorway, a fully automatic MA5C assault rifle brandished in his hands. His armour was scored and battered, the green paint chipped in places. It was the armour of a true veteran, a career soldier who had stared death in the face more than once and walked away. The administrator had only ever seen Brambley in his bureaucratic mode, as Abelev's fussing, dutiful assistant. Jennings realised it was all an act. With his unblinking eyes and bunched jaw, the real Brambley was significantly scarier.

Jennings did as she was asked.

The MA5C roared in the confined space as Brambley swung it across in a blazing arc, the steel-jacketed rounds punching fist sized holes through the triple-glazed reinforced glass. Cauldwell was frozen in terror, his eyes bulging. Brambley released his finger from the trigger. Spent casings tumbled to the carpet floor, singeing it. The smell of cordite wafted thickly in the air. He lowered the smoking rifle.

The Lieutenant's aim was flawless.

He had intentionally hit everywhere _except_ the director. Two gaping holes bracketed either side of the man's head. Wind whistled freely through the now-ventilated 'view'. The desk had been reduced to the world's most expensive match-stick wood. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Jennings realised the smarmy director had pissed himself. In the distance, alarms began to wail.

"Shots fired, situation normal," Brambley spoke calmly into his com-link, "All forces stand down."

The sirens fell silent.

Shell-shocked in the most literal sense, Cauldwell's mouth worked up and down, like a drowning fish. Brambley spoke for him, as calm and collected as ever.

"You've just received your first induction into the modern realities of live-fire combat. Sergeant Murphy is expecting to see you on the next training rotation, at 21:00 hours. That gives you..." he checked his watch, "...thirty-five minutes to get to the starport. Major Abelev himself also expects to see every one of your employees there. No exceptions, no excuses. And I assure you, Director, the major is not as subtle as I am. Am I understood?"

A tiny nod was all Cauldwell could muster.

"Good. Now scram."

Cauldwell bolted.

Jennings turned to Brambley, a grateful smile on her face.

"I must thank you, Lieutenant, you just made my day."

He shook his head.

"Don't thank me just yet, Ma'am. I actually came here looking for you." His face was drawn with tension.

"There's something I have to tell you. It's about your daughter…"

* * *

Night fell.

When darkness fell on Crassus, so too did the temperature. Where once there had been cloying sand and blistering heat, there was now frosty moonlight and biting chill. Perry was suddenly glad for the thickness of his flight jacket. He zipped it up to his chin, balling his fists deep within his pockets. He was sweating from the exertion of the relentless march, and he began to shiver incessantly. Unfortunately, the Elites showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.

The convoy trudged ever on, thankful to have the sun off their backs. The only sound was the constant click of the Elites' armoured plating. The Grunts, exhausted, had fallen quiet. Even Sarah was draped unconscious across the massive Hunter, though like the Elites, the giants did not seem to tire.

Perry's hoped they would. His legs were killing him.

Perry was no marine. In fact, he wasn't even remotely heroic at all. A thin, short man in his mid-thirties, his hair was thinning, and his face itched with bristly stubble. His eyes, a deep blue, carried with them a careful intelligence. He was a passive fellow, used to following orders, rather than taking the initiative himself. Of all the people who could find themselves in this situation, he was probably one of the least suitable.

At least he had company, such as it was. One of the Elites, a red-armoured warrior by the name of Zuka, had taken it upon himself to learn each and every single thing he could about Perry. The conversation had begun strangely, with the Elite peering at him in quiet curiosity.

"Well met, Perry-Human." the Elite nodded, thumping its breastplate with a clenched fist. "Shipmaster Arume sends his regards."

"Just call me Perry." the pilot smiled up at the towering alien. Zuka blinked slowly, then nodded.

"As you wish, Perry. It was made known to me that you were a pilot, is this true?"

"It is."

"I too share this discipline!" The Elite warbled enthusiastically, "That makes us Brothers of a sort, does it not?"

"Well yes… I guess you could say that."

"Forgive my enthusiasm, Human, but for many cycles I have duelled with the human pilots." Zuka's voice was matter-of-fact. "Many showed great skill before they were inevitably slain at my hands!"

Perry wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.

"Oh, I see."

Fortunately, the conversation moved swiftly on. Zuka would ask an endless series of questions, his curiosity insatiable. He would question, and Perry would answer, and then feel defensive whenever the Elite would utter that strange _wortling_ laughter in return.

To Perry, it almost felt like an interrogation, though the Elite intentions seemed innocent enough. Secretly, Zuka marvelled at humanity's tenacity. Such worthy foes, and yet they fought with such primitive weapons!

Then things took an interesting turn.

"I must confess, Perry, your deeds have impressed the Shipmaster greatly."

"They have?"

"Indeed. Word of your courage in the face of the Jiralhanae Chieftain has spread quickly. Challenging it to single combat, with naught but a simple human blade? Your actions bring you much credit. Many of the Sangheili have been keen to speak with you, but deem it improper to seek an audience with such an accomplished warrior without formal introduction. As a helmsman, I am not bound by such limitations."

Perry threw back his head and laughed. Zuka cocked his head to one side, confused.

_So that's why they kept staring…_

* * *

At the head of the column, Vtan guided the Separatists through the canyons. By his side, Rukth marched in silence, brooding and sullen. The Shipmaster regarded him, then spoke.

"You are troubled. Make your thoughts heard, old friend."

"I have no ailments, Shipmaster," The one-eyed Elite shook his head. "Physical, or otherwise."

Vtan snorted.

"You are a poor liar. The very air around you bristles with conflict."

Rukth's mandibles gnashed in discomfort.

"It is not my place to question you, Shipmaster." Rukth replied quietly.

"After all our years of fighting together," Vtan chuckled. "Do you think me so soft as to be incapable of taking criticism? Come now, Rukth. I am made of sterner stuff than that. Please, speak your mind, and do not hesitate."

The Spec Op, clearly uncomfortable, spoke with considerable hesitation.

"Granting the humans mercy… is this wise? What would our people say if they saw us consorting with them? If they saw a _Youngling_ mount the Mgalekgolo like some mere beast."

Vtan looked up at Crassus' single moon. It shone brightly, bathing them all in its soothing light. He took a moment to consider his response.

"Do you remember the tenets of our ancestors, before the Writ of Union was made and our once-sacred Covenant forged?" he asked.

Rukth nodded. Vtan continued.

"One of their codes was simple: '_Respect your enemies, respect yourself_.' Those are wise words. Ones to live by. During the prosecution of this war, I have always followed that principle."

"It has taught me a great deal. In every conflict I have served in, in every victory I have won, it was clear that the Humans merit such respect. They lack our technology, the might of our fleets … and yet still they fight on. We glass entire worlds, crush countless numbers of them underfoot, and still their resolve not only holds, it gathers in strength. As each world falls, they only grow in tenacity. I ask you, old friend, what warrior cannot respect such fighting spirit? "

"Your words are true, as ever, Shipmaster." Rukth granted reluctantly. Passionate to win his comrade's approval, Vtan pressed on.

"I remember another truism of our ancestors: '_The Enemy of my Enemy is my Friend_' - do these same words not apply now? The Jiralhanae wish us dead. That much is certain. Blinded by the fanaticism that once clouded our own eyes, they shall stop at nothing to see our bones scattered across the surface of this lonely planet. The False-Hierarchs would accept nothing less. Knowing this, I have given mercy to the Humans. For once, it will be good to side with allies _worthy_ of our strength."

Rukth nodded slowly, before adding darkly.

"That is,_ if_ they accept…"


	16. Noises in the Dark

_"I'll tell you one thing about those Elites; they sure know how to march."_

- attributed to Flight Officer David Perry; 'The Crassus Campaign - A Revised History', 2591.

The refugees picked their way deeper into the Eastern Mountains. Here, the broken terrain fractured even more, the canyons spilling down into a series of tighter passages, the narrowness accentuated by the monstrous cliffs looming overhead. The walls rose up to the heavens, like ancient gods, impassive and solemn. Only a sliver of the moonlit sky was visible between each crevice.

The Elites marched deep in shadow, a few scattered beams of light gently pooling across the surface of their armour. Eons ago, estuaries from the high mountain rivers had coursed their way through these lands, the waters sluicing down into the central plains. Once, Crassus had been a vibrant, thriving world.

Those times were long past.

"Shipmaster, a word."

"Speak, friend Rukth."

"My specialists have reported a number of strange sightings ahead. Markings carved on regular sections of the canyon walls." The one-eyed Elite paused, and then added.

"They are of Covenant origin."

"Our path-finders often use such markers to guide the way for those who follow behind." Vtan replied, half-listening. The endless march, coupled with the pressures of command, was beginning to weigh upon him heavily. "The practice is not unknown to me, Brother. What of it?"

"I realise that, Shipmaster. Forgive me, but you seem to have misunderstood." The Spec Op's voice was troubled. "These markings - none of them were made by us. There's something else out here."

A chilling jolt ran up Vtan's spine. Fully alert now, his eyes narrowed beneath the rim of his silver-trimmed helmet.

"Stay vigilant, Brother, we have come too far to be stopped now. Double the sentries on the human girl. Both you and I know it is imperative no harm comes to her."

"Your will be done, Shipmaster." Rukth disappeared with barely a whisper.

The Shipmaster marched onward. Several times, Vtan got the feeling somebody was watching him. Agitated, he would stop and suddenly look up, hoping to catch the would-be spies in the act. Every time he did so, the feeling would slip away, like a barely-remembered dream. He studied the rocks above. Nothing but starlight and sandstone stared back. He shook himself, pushed the uneasy feeling aside and instead focused on the march ahead.

In the shadows high above, watchful eyes lurked. Waiting.

* * *

It was midnight when it came in the night. Death, low and buzzing.

"Yanme'e." Rukth warned; his ears as sharp as ever. Vtan nodded, making a quick gesture with his arm.

The Separatists pressed themselves deep into the dry river bed, the moisture-starved dirt dusting them in a fine layer of white powder. It was fortunate that the Unngoy were as exhausted as they were. Had they made even a single sound, their high-pitched voices would have doomed them all.

The Sangheili said nothing. They crouched in the shadows of the mighty cliffs, eyeing the sky above with tense eyes and ready weapons. At that moment, the greatest threat to the Elites was their own martial pride. While their discipline was deeply ingrained, the waiting was intolerable. It was all they could do to not roar out a challenge and be done with it, to close battle and meet the foe head on. Blood boiling, many twitched as they shook with silent fury.

The Shipmaster's cool gaze restrained them all.

Further back up the line, one of the Hunters let Sarah slip underneath the shelter of its shield, where she curled into a ball, her eyes shut and fingers jammed in her ears. The buzzing rose to fever pitch. Perry's heart thudded in his chest as he crouched between Zerat and Zuka. The helmsman was evidently the more agitated of the two. His head moved constantly as his eyes rapidly tracked each of the sounds above, a slave to his own keenly honed reflexes. By contrast, the marksman simply stared upward, unblinking. His beam rifle was cradled patiently in his hands.

"_Yanme'e_…" Zuka hissed in displeasure. "Loathsome creatures."

"Yanme'e?" Perry whispered in confusion.

"What your kind call Drones, human." Zerat translated quietly. "Now be silent, both of you, lest you reveal our location to the enemy."

For twenty traumatising minutes, they sat in the dark. The Drones chattered above them like murderous crickets. The luminous moon was eclipsed by a swarm passing overhead. For miles around, thousands of Drones flitted above the canyons, their translucent wings a humming blur. The sound was maddening.

Eventually, the buzzing faded away, before dying out altogether. Perry heaved a sigh of relief.

"The danger is past, Brothers." Vtan's voice sounded weary over the Battle Net, "Rest now; our journey resumes at first light."

* * *

Major Abelev was overseeing the final finishing touches to his defence plans. Beside him was an increasingly exasperated Lieutenant Commander Song.

"But you can't do that, Major. It's not even remotely realistic." Song loosened his collar, consulting the blueprints again, "Our engineers have already performed wonders to accomplish what they have in the time given. But what you're asking here is for them to perform miracles."

Abelev's reply was typically brusque.

"Wonders, miracles, parlour tricks, whatever." The major banged his fist against the table, "I don't give a damn if they need to_ levitate_ to do it, just get it done. I want that MAC cannon back online, and its core components transferred to the rail line detail by 13:00 tomorrow."

"You're asking the impossible." Song held his corner admirably, "Our engineers simply aren't qualified - they're terraformers, not munitions experts. You'll destroy half the colony just moving it."

The major went to reply, but the door to the operations centre banged open. Amanda Jennings stormed in, her expression infused with the wrath of a thousand suns. Song backed away, knowing trouble when he saw it. Abelev merely looked fatigued. Over-worked and over-stressed, he pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best to ignore her. It was wishful thinking. Jennings grabbed the major by the shoulder and wrenched him about to face her.

"_Bastard_." she spat. "How could you let this happen? She was my daughter!"

Meeting her stare openly, he raised his palms in an attempt to mollify her.

"Ma'am, I fully appreciate the tragedy of your recent loss. You have my utmost sympathy, you really do. But now is not the-"

Her fist silenced him. The entire communications deck gasped.

Her punch had snapped his head around. Hard. Even Abelev was impressed. He reached a hand up to his burst lip, working his jaw slowly around the blow.

"That's quite a left hook you got there, Administrator." Abelev said with a wane smile.

He caught her second punch before it landed, his fist enveloping her own. His smile faded. "But don't try that again."

She shook with rage and grief, wobbling tears spilling down her burning cheeks. She swung again, this time with the right. He caught that strike too. His massive paw-like hands pinned hers in a tight grip, unmoving. Restrained and bristling with anger, she spat at him. The spittle hit his cheek with a wet smack. Abelev closed his eyes patiently.

Then he pulled her into a tight bear hug. Breaking down, Jennings wailed, a keening sound of terrible loss. It almost didn't sound human. Certainly, it was a song no human should ever have to make. She beat her fists against his chest, and he simply took it, his head bowed. Finally, her blows began to subside, waning in force. Exhausted, she clung to him, her body racked with sobs.

"You have no _idea_." she choked, "You have no_ idea_ what it's like. I've lost _everyone_. First my husband, and now my little Sarah."

At the mention of Sarah's name, a whole new wave of tears began.

Abelev studied the carpet, brow furrowed. His voice was quiet, a hoarse whisper. A delicate smile perched on his lips.

"I had a wife and kids once. Two daughters and a son. Real good, simple folks. Honest living, didn't asking nothing of nobody. Lived in a small town called _The Pines_, outside one of the main cities near New Dubrovnik. That's the New Dubrovnik on Reach, by the way, not Victoria. Good place too, all white picket fences, flags in the lawn, the whole apple pie shit. Never saw enough of 'em really. Service never let me."

The entire communications room was silent as the major spoke. The smile was gone now.

"I was there when it happened. Or rather, I should have been. I watched from the bridge of the _Anchises_ as the Covenant glassed the entire colony from orbit. Full plasma bombardment. No survivors."

His eyes opened, becoming raw slits.

"Ma'am, more so than anyone,I feel your pain. Lord knows I wish I didn't, but I know what you're going through. So don't _ever_ tell me I don't know what it feels like. Don't _ever_ question my will to protect each and every one of these colonists. You lost everyone? Welcome to the war. Next time you're near my troops, ask around. Pretty soon, you'll see we're not the only ones who've lost kin. Go ahead. You go and ask Brambley, Lewis, Song here. Hell, even ask Murphy. They'll all tell you the same thing. We've _all_ lost somebody. That's why me and my boys aren't gonna quit. Not here. Not until we put every single one of them alien bastards back in the ground, or they do the same to us."

"I know it hurts, more than anything. But don't let it break you. You _can't_ let it break you. You've rallied this entire colony behind you. They _need_ you. All that pain? You just gotta bottle it down real tight, and _use_ it."

He held her close. Although he was whispering, the sound of his voice in her ear was deafening. "You're just like one of us now. You understand? We're all in this together."

Amanda Jennings nodded, once, and wept.

* * *

Zuka was one of the first to wake. The morning sun warmed his skin, trickling down through the crevice. Particles of dust danced in the morning sun. He sat up, stretching. His joints were sore, and he scowled. Though young for a Sangheili, Zuka was a talented pilot. By merit of his natural skill, he had spent very little time as a foot soldier. He was not used to it.

_Perhaps I have lingered in the skies too long_, Zuka thought. _This marching business does not agree with me._

Still, Zuka welcomed the personal challenge. He had grown soft, and this trek would strengthen both his mind and body. It would be good to temper himself on the ground once more. Such experiences were what wrought a true Sangheili warrior. He surveyed the carpet of sleeping Grunts heaped gracelessly along the creek bed. None of them stirred.

The Hunters too remained peacefully in slumber, the human youngling snoozing beneath them: a strange sight, borne of even stranger times. Zuka rolled to his feet. As expected, Rukth and the rest of the Special Operations team had already risen, and gathered together in a tight huddle. Eager to act as the refugees' pathfinders, they would scout ahead of the party for hours at a time. Even by Sangheili standards, their stamina was extraordinary.

True to form, the ground where Zerat had slept looked as though it hadn't been disturbed for centuries. Beside Zuka however, things were quite different. Between him and the pair of Hunters, there was a gaping gap. Here, the ground was tussled, the dust strewn about carelessly. There were what appeared to be a series of ragged drag-marks trailing across the dirt. These were the signs of a struggle.

Something was wrong.

The helmsman frowned. After a moment, he realised what it was.

Perry-Human was missing.

Perry's eyes fluttered open.

His first thought was that the sky was wrong. For one, it was far too open. Peaceful blue clouds rolled serenely overhead. Direct sunlight beat mercilessly down upon his skin. He could already feel himself burning. Disorientated, he scrambled upright. He found himself at the very top of the canyon ridge line, overlooking a commanding view of the entire area. Far out in the central plains, he could see the smoke stacks of Horizon's many refineries, a smudged pin-prick in the far distance.

_Where the hell…_

Something barrelled into him from behind. A hand clamped around his throat. He went to cry out, but the sound was muffled against the oily hide of alien skin. The smell was rich, sweet. Distinctly Sangheili. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Your death shall bring our redemption, Human!" a husky voice promised.

Another voice, equally ancient, called out from somewhere out of view.

"Not yet, Marikos, he must be sacrificed in accordance with the proper rituals. Simply murdering him serves no purpose. Let him alone."

The vice around his throat slackened. For the first time, Perry got a good luck at his kidnappers.

They were Elites, but unlike any other he had witnessed before. Where Vtan's warriors were armoured and covered in sleek plating, these were shrouded in frayed grey robes. Low hoods hung over their heads, leaving only their naked mandibles visible. They carried plasma rifles, though the weapons were battered and falling apart. Grenades, of both human and Covenant origin, dangled from leather bandoliers. Many carried large ceremonial knives, wrought from brilliant silver, held in sheathes sown from animal hide. Some had fashioned themselves crude spears by fastening them to body-length shafts of wood. All of the Elites were hunched with age, their skin leathery and worn from years of hardship.

There were seven of them in total. They regarded him with bare-faced contempt. Perry's inherent fear of all things Elite-shaped came flooding back in an instant. One of them, the leader judging by the purple hood draped over his head, stepped forward. He toed Perry with an idle hoof.

"Tell me, Human, why is it you travel freely with Sangheili, free of restraints?" The purple robed outcast enquired, its eyes narrowed. "Have you bowed down and accepted the righteousness of our Great Journey?"

Perry, fully versed in conversing with hostile aliens by this point, found his voice quickly. He only stammered occasionally.

"W-we were heading for Horizon, and we-"

"The Human citadel?"

"Erm… yes. That. And we-"

"And you wish to lead our Honoured Cousins into a trap?" The purple robed Elite nodded ruefully. He clearly didn't grasp the concept of 'two-way dialogue'. "Yes... I suspected as much!"

"Actually, we were-"

"Silence! You may speak only when Molikos wishes you to!" the one called Marikos roared.

There was a snap-whine as a beam rifle clicked to full power. Zerat shimmered into view, his rifle levelled squarely at Marikos' head. Naturally, it was a kill-shot, guaranteed. The robed Elites reached for the hilts of their daggers.

"Why don't you let the Perry-Human speak for himself?" the marksman suggested calmly.

There was a chorus of metallic hisses as blades were wrenched from their scabbards. Zerat didn't flinch. Neither did his opponents.

"Easy, Brother: we have no quarrel with you." Molikos warned, "But we will kill you, if necessary."

"Were it so easy."

That was Rukth. As one, the other six Special Operations Elites appeared. Each one held a weapon drawn on the robed Elites. In Rukth's case, he carried two, his twin plasma rifles' cooling vents clicking as they adjusted in the baking sun. Both were pressed tightly to the base of Molikus' skull.

"You may have evaded my sentries the first time," Rukth pressed his weapons deeper, "But this time, there shall be no mistakes."

"Even without your camouflage, I did not sense your approach," Molikos mused," You have talent."

"As do you." Rukth returned grudgingly, "It is almost a shame I shall have to kill you."

"Brave words, Brother" Molikos replied, "but you underestimate our resolve."

All of the robed Elites held plasma grenades aloft, their fingers hovering over the activation studs. The Spec Ops exchanged glances, but held their ground. They would not compromise, not even for a second. Perry gulped. The only thing worse than a group of murderous Elites was_ two_ groups of murderous Elites, intent on butchering each other.

"Enough of this." a commanding voice boomed.

Standing on an overlooking ridge was the Shipmaster, flanked by Zuka and a dozen other Elites.

"Stay your hands, all of you." Vtan ordered, striding forward. He carried his energy sword, but - tellingly - its blade was inert. "We are all Brothers here."

Reluctantly, the stalemate defused. The Spec Ops stood down as ordered. In return, the robed Elites sheathed their weapons. Rukth was the last to lower his weapons. A born fighter, he was by far the most disappointed.

"Shipmaster Vtan 'Arume, of the _Pride of Sanghelios_." Vtan stated formally, "To whom do I speak?"

Molikos bowed his head reverently. "You speak to nobody, Lord Shipmaster. An Outcast, a Pariah. We are Shamed; less than nothing and lost to the Great Journey forever. Even standing before you, we are not worthy."

"Then why is it you dare to bear weapons against my warriors?" Vtan asked steadily.

"My apologies, Shipmaster." Molikos shook his head adamantly, "It was self defence. We meant no disrespect."

Vtan, satisfied with this explanation, replied. "Then do not disrespect me further by hiding your faces beneath these tattered rags. Reveal yourselves, all of you."

Molikos and his brethren slowly teased back their hoods and stripped their cloaks down to their mid-riffs. Seared into the middle of their chests was an angry sigil, denoting a circular tangle of what looked to Perry like knotted barbed wire. Each had been branded, like cattle. Vtan nodded, having seen enough. Eager to hide their Marks of Shame, the Elites disappeared beneath their cloaks once more.

"Heretics." Vtan noted, "As I expected. What brings you here?"

Again, Molikos spoke for them.

"Early in the war against the Humans, we failed to uphold our Oath, Shipmaster. The human we had been tasked with eliminating escaped our grasp, unscathed. We were all shamed, cast forth from the Covenant. On our return to High Charity from Human space, the vessel conducting us to our execution ceremony was damaged in a chance skirmish with an outbound Human patrol. It crashed, and we found ourselves here. The damage was extensive. Only we and a contingent of Huragok survived."

"This ship of which you speak, where is it?"

Molikos pointed over in the direction of Horizon.

"West of here, not far from the Human Citadel. They settled here not long after we made our violent arrival on this planet, some twenty-four cycles ago. Our refuge is well hidden, buried deep beneath the sand. To this day, we eke out our existence here, hunting the Humans so that one day we might earn redemption in the eyes of the Gods."

Vtan absorbed this information carefully, choosing not to comment. He would disabuse the Outcasts of their delusions in time. The Shipmaster looked over towards Perry.

"Are you injured, Friend Perry?"

"Nothing but a few scratches. I'll live." Perry offered a weak smile.

"Excellent. I must apologise, but it seems our journey to your city will be slightly delayed."

Upon hearing this, one of the Outcasts stepped forward, outraged.

"You mean you are truly going to venture to the Human Citadel? But they are our enemies!" Marikos protested. The armoured Elites bristled at his insubordination.

"It is not wise to interrupt me, Outcast." Vtan replied testily, "Do so again, and you shall find those rags of yours offer little protection against my blade."

Marikos, cowed, bowed his head apologetically. Molikos spoke up next.

"Shipmaster… if you wish the humans unharmed…" he ventured, "Perhaps you would like to see the other one."

Everyone turned and looked at the Outcast. Perry broke the silence.

"The 'other one'?" Perry echoed carefully. Had they taken Sarah too? Travelling with aliens was difficult. He was beginning to hate feeling out of the loop all of the time.

Molikos nodded and motioned towards one of the Outcasts. Squirming at its feet was a heavy cloth sack, larger and bulkier than Perry. The Elite undid its fastenings, gripping one end of the sack and unceremoniously tipping its contents out onto the rocky ground.

"We found this one at the site of your crash, Human." The Elite warbled, "We were hoping to add his hide to our collection."

Wild-eyed and gagged, his dark skin beaded with sweat, Staff Sergeant Raymond Howard clambered to his feet, blinking in incomprehension. Having recently gone through the entire alien abduction experience himself, Perry could really sympathise with how he felt.

It was right about the point where one of the Outcasts carefully asked "So does this mean we do not get to sacrifice the Humans?" that poor Howard fainted.


	17. Planet Fall

_"Crassus? A great big ball of sand. Arsehole of nowhere, really. Oh, did I mention there was sand?"_

- Major B. Murphy, 105th Hell jumpers (ret.), six months before his death, September 2602.

* * *

Because of the sparse and unremarkable nature of the terrain, geographical names on Crassus were strictly limited to reflect their relationship and proximity to Horizon.

As a young colony, scarcely thirty years old come next week, mapping was rudimentary at best. It took years for a world to be fully catalogued, decades even. For two hundred years after its first discovery, Crassus would never evolve beyond the scale of local-level settlement.

Accordingly, Horizon was treated as the centre point of the compass, to which all others points related.

To the east, beyond two kilometres of open sand, rose the rugged Eastern Passages, proud and regal. It was through here Vtan and the Separatists had arduously trekked for three days and three nights.

North of the city were the Badlands, where the shifting sands slowly gave way to an arid stretch of craggy limestone and broken basalt. To both the south and west were the Wastes, so-called because there was little more there than an endless stretch of undulating dunes, which were constantly shifted and re-forged by the howling winds. To venture out there was suicide, as the constantly changing nature of the terrain made navigation all but impossible. It was the bane of cartographers and survey teams alike.

It was ten miles north of Horizon, deep in the Badlands, where the invasion truly began.

Feet planted on a commanding plateau of ancient sandstone, Pack-Leader Malwreckus basked in the orange glow of the rising morning sun, hands clasped behind the small of his back.

The Brute Chieftain took a deep snort of the morning air, savouring the grandeur of this moment. This was his time. Not wishing to spoil it, he said nothing. Indeed, the only indication of his mood was the glint of eager yellow fangs beneath his black and red head-crest. It was a tight, confident smirk. Behind him lingered his personal guard, their golden armour polished to a mirror sheen.

The two guards stood side by side, stock-still and silent. They patiently held Malwrekus' Gravity Hammer, Imperator, between them. It was reverently displayed on a long, crimson cushion, laced with silver. Like their commander, their eyes remained transfixed on the view below.

It truly was a site to behold.

An endless stream of dropships glided down from the Implacable Duty's swollen belly, which lurked ominously in the upper atmosphere. Returning ships flitted back to the mother ship with barely contained haste, like pilot fish darting about a prowling shark. Some forty drops had already been made over the course of the night, and this pace was set to continue long into late evening.

In three days, the invasion would officially begin, to coincide with the anniversary of the Jiralhanae's signing of the Writ of Union. To the Jiralhanae, it was a holy day, deserving only the most worthy tribute. The humans would provide a generous sacrifice to the Gods. Torikus' deadline had been quite specific.

Malwrekus swore it would be met.

Already, Huragok assembly teams had begun constructing the rudimentary preparations necessary to sustain a full invasion force. Sheltered behind a wide semi-circle of floating grav-platforms, rippling shield defences and pod-like turrets, a cluster of bulbous food nipples had been assembled, to be guarded by a detachment of the Chieftain's finest shock-troops. Their defence was critical. As the rank and file of the Covenant invasion, the Unggoy's food supply was fundamental to the successful prosecution of any ground invasion. If they fell, the result would be disastrous to the entire Jiralhanae war machine.

Malwrekus knew many of the more advanced Unggoy had a history of siding with the Sangheili, an unfortunate trait stemming from the two species' generations of service together. With an estimated one million Unggoy waiting to be employed in the invasion, such an outcome was unacceptable. The Chieftain was an astute leader, and knew it was essential to eliminate any potential mutinous sentiment in his army, and solidify the Unggoy's loyalty to the Jiralhanae cause. He would do this not through their hearts and minds, but through their bellies.

The first wave were already assembled. At the front, ragged rows of Kigyar mercenaries filed out from the side hatches of old Spirit class landing craft, large fluorescent energy shields slung over their backs. Others wore eye-scopes which twinkled a menacing purple in the dawn's half-light. They clutched heavily customised beam rifles, which seemed comically oversized in the Kigyar's scrawny, bird-like talons. Malwrekus spied one of the Kigyar marshal the shield-bearers into tightly arranged phalanxes. They efficiently practiced drilling manoeuvres, folding themselves into an impenetrable wall of neon-green. Four thousand energy shields dazzled in the morning sun. The remainder, some two hundred or so specialists, would serve as scouts and path-finders to the main force, isolating and identifying weaknesses in the Human citadel.

"So the vultures have discipline." one of his bodyguards commented, impressed.

"So it would appear." Malwrekus agreed, "Good. We're not paying them for nothing."

Behind them came the Unggoy legions. The meat of the initial assault force, ten-thousand strong, they waddled forward under the weight of their methane tanks. The runts had been grouped into squads of ten, each to be overseen by a Jiralhanae squad leader. Malwrekus had intentionally assigned the junior Jiralhanae this task, as an incentive for would-be officers to prove their mettle in a command role. Those who proved themselves worthy would be elevated into the main Jiralhanae shock-corps, with the promise of further promotion if they in turn succeeded there. In the event they failed, then no matter. They would have proven themselves unworthy of survival, let alone advancement. Survival of the fittest. Such was the Jiralhanae way.

Next came the Jiralhanae siege-breakers, the _Jiral'han_.

You heard them before you saw them. Even when idling, four hundred Jiralhanae Assault Bikes made a lot of noise. The air throbbed with a constant thrumming sound as their engines revved, hungry for battle. Their exhausts coughed up throaty black plumes of oily smoke. The _Jiral'han_ were composed of some of the most aggressive Jiralhanae berserkers aboard the entire carrier. Understanding the importance of morale to such a critical unit, they were under the separate command of their own Pack-Leader, a seasoned warrior by the name of Kekherus. Malwrekus found the other Pack-Leader vainglorious and brash, but fortunately his scope in the operation was limited to that single duty.

It was he, Malwrekus, who would have the glory of command.

Like most Jiralhanae war doctrines, the concept of the siege-breakers was as simple as it was brutally effective. The bikes themselves would race ahead of the main force, using their powerful 35mm cannons to punch a hole in the defences, rending flesh and steel in equal measure. From here, they would burst through the exposed gap torn in the enemy defences, spreading discord and chaos deep within enemy lines. Because of the nature of their role, most of the Assault Bike's armour plating was fixed to the front of the savage vehicle.

Also assigned to the first wave were a full compliment of Wraith bombardment tanks, six in all, which would mercilessly shell the enemy's defences, softening them up for the assault proper. Malwrekus grinned. The Wraiths, coupled with the two thousand Yanme'e, would see the enemy commanders bombarded in more ways than one. By the time the first wave struck, the other two waves, still yet to be deployed, would hardly seem necessary.

The Chieftain's plan had pleased the High-Chieftain greatly. It promised a minimal dedication of resources with a maximum return on investment; employing a small, tightly orchestrated force to punch a single decisive hole in the enemy lines. For all his initial rage, Torikus wanted the city taken cleanly, and in relatively short order. The Hierarchs rarely approved of excessive waste. Privately, however, Shipmaster didn't seem to mind expending his forces.

He just wanted the Sangheili Shipmaster's head, by any means necessary.

Malwrekus' plan was to focus the entirety of his force on one single part of the Human Citadel. Wraith tanks, Yanme'e swarms and mid-range aerial fighters would soften the enemy's northern defences, which, in turn, would be breached by the Jiral'han. By concentrating his firepower, Malwrekus' forces would punch through in a single blow. Once the tip of the spear had pierced the curtain wall, a flood of Unggoy, nestled safely behind the advancing Kigyar phalanx, would storm into the city, swamping the enemy. That achieved, it was time for the final coup des grace.

The killing stroke.

Malwrekus' eyes moved to the lone Scarab heavy assault walker, the Unquestionable Truth. It perched above the entire assault force like a malevolent, four-legged scorpion. At over ninety feet tall, it cast everything beneath its mighty shadow. Thirty of his most elite shock-troops, the notorious Jiral'ja, crowded about on its surface, adjusting their comrade's jump-packs as they prepped themselves for the assault ahead. From this distance, it looked as though they were preening each other. The Jiral'ja were the best of the best, talented assaulters who combined tight discipline with unswerving loyalty.

Their reputation amongst the Jiralhanae was unmatched.

For Malwrekus, it was a day of days. Shipmaster Torikus had given him command one of the largest invasion armies ever witnessed in Jiralhanae history. Their victory was assured. Within a day, he would tear the whole city open, and present Torikus with the Sangheili's head on a pike. A competent and worthy warrior, Torikus had been right to trust him. High up on that rock, gazing down at the thousands of troops below, Malwrekus swelled with pride.

The High-Chieftain would not be disappointed.

The Separatists journeyed on, the Outcasts navigating through the fiendishly twisted terrain with ease. Years of exile on this wind-swept world had forged them into masterful guides, blessed with an unerring sense of direction. On the few occasions when the path became unclear, their own markings, carved deep into the amber rock long ago, guided them onward. Rukth and his Spec Ops, relieved to be able to take a moment's respite, flanked the Shipmaster as an honour guard. Even they, the Sangheili elite, were impressed by the Outcasts' abilities.

The Outcast leader, Molikos, walked by Vtan's side. His head was bowed in fierce concentration as he listened. Occasionally, his face would ripple with confusion, shock, and sometimes outright rage. Vtan, for his part, spoke softly, enlightening him gently. When Perry asked Zuka what it was they were speaking about, the helmsman - normally so enthusiastic - gave a rather sedate response.

"He is having the blindfold removed from his eyes, friend Perry." Zuka said simply, regret in his voice. His tone did not invite further inquiry.

Perry nodded, unsure, then hurried to catch up with Howard. The Sergeant wasn't exactly talkative, but ever since his untimely release, he had been decidedly less gruff with the gangly pilot. Maybe he was relieved to have company that wasn't eight feet tall with mandibles.

"How's it goin', fly-boy?" Howard smiled in greeting.

Ray Howard was a massive man, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He struck Perry as a man of quiet confidence, and he took a moment to compose his words before he spoke. Not from of a lack of intelligence, but because - in spite of his immense physicality - he was a thoughtful man. He hadn't survived the war this long by being foolish. The two men talked quietly, chuckling about shared experiences. Evidently, Zuka had attempted to befriend Howard too.

"He wanted to know how the Pelican's engines work," Perry was saying, "Can't say it was the easiest conversation I've ever had."

"You think that's bad?" Howard replied, grinning, "You try explain to him what being black is. Kept asking why I was a 'painted warrior'."

The two men laughed at that. For all their advanced technology, many of the Elites seemed ignorant of human culture. Zuka, recovered from his mood, rejoined them, and the interrogation began anew. Howard let Perry speak for the most part, surprised at how quickly the pilot had established rapport with the massive, crimson-armoured Elite. In any other situation, on any other world, the two would have been mortal enemies.

* * *

Four hours later, the Separatists reached the Outcasts' lair.

Astonishingly, the entrance was right at the edge of the Eastern Passages, almost invisible to the naked eye. What made it so hard to spot was the awkward angle at which the tunnel mouth pointed; it was directly nestled against a small outcrop of rocks at the base of a massive sand dune. An unsuspecting passer-by could walk right over it, never knowing it was there.

The Separatists waited outside. Only the Outcasts and Vtan's most trusted warriors went inside.

Perry, curious, stepped up to the entrance. One of the two Spec Ops flanking the door held up a hand to stop him.

"These Exiles openly hunted and slaughtered your people in the name of the False-Hierarchs, Perry-Human." The Elite's voice was solemn.

"And you didn't?" Perry arched a sarcastic eyebrow.

"A fair point, Human. Still, I would not advise entering."

Perry thought about it for a moment. He turned and look back up the dune. The Hunters were gently bouncing Sarah up and down on their massive shields. She clung on for dear life, giggling uncontrollably. The Grunts formed a circle around them, clamouring in excitement. Howard stood with his arms folded across his chest, a baffled smile fixed on his expression.

"Just make sure Sarah doesn't go in, whatever you do." Perry told the sentry.

"It shall be as you ask, Perry-Human." Elite inclined his head, "The Youngling shall not enter."

Perry nodded his thanks, then ducked down into the shadowy cave, keen to be out of the hot sun.

When Perry stepped down into the twisting entrance, the first thing that hit him was the wall of stifling heat. Lighting was sparse, the only source of it coming from an elaborate series of reflective shards affixed to the cavern walls. Each one was angled to mirror the outside light deeper into the tunnel. It cast a series of jumping shadows across the sand-clogged walls. Perry leaned forward and studied the shards closer. He flicked one with his finger, eliciting a ringing ping which reverberated down the tunnel. It was made of the same silver material as the Outcasts' daggers.

He stepped deeper into the lair.

As he picked his way through the gloom, Perry realised that the hill outside wasn't a massive sand dune at all. It was the ruins of a ship. Occasionally, he could see the edge of a bulkhead, or a hint of exposed decking. His mind boggled at how well the ship had managed to bury itself into the planet's crust. For years, the sands of Crassus had piled over it, until eventually it had simply melded with the ground around it. Perry shuffled onward, his nostrils wrinkling at the stench of alien sweat. The Exiles, having not bathed in considerable time, were decidedly pungent.

They didn't seem to mind.

Zerat detached himself from one of the shadows, warbling a greeting which nearly gave Perry a heart-attack.

"Well met, Perry-Human." The sniper hammered his fist against his breastplate. Perry, looked unsure of himself as he mimicked the gesture. The Spec Op wortled, bemused, then indicated the passage ahead.

"This way."

The tunnel spread out into a wider chamber. It was evidently a small ship, as the layout of the room - though cramped - had all the makings of a central hub. The angle of the room was slightly skewed, and Perry had to watch his footing on the sloping floor. He knew enough about spaceship design to see that this had once been the bridge. Command consoles, dark for decades now, sat rusting and decaying, their holo-projectors grim and silent.

A large banner had been hung across the chamber's roof. Perry couldn't make out what was written on it, but the pattern seemed familiar. After a moment, he realised what it was. The markings which were branded on the Outcasts' flesh had been writ in large across the stained grey banner. With a sickening lurch of his stomach, Perry saw that some of the markings had been daubed in human blood. Looking away, he then spied a series of rusted cages gathered in the corner. They had been cobbled together from the twisted wreckage of UNSC equipment. Cluttered in one of the cages was a pile of bones.

Vtan stood in the centre of the chamber, his sword ignited to provide further illumination. The shadows throbbed in its eerie pulsing glow. The Shipmaster's white armour stood out in the gloom, the reflecting mirrors highlighting its silver trim. He took in the chamber slowly, then turned to Perry. The twinned slits of his sloping helmet shone brightly in the darkness.

"It grieves me to see the lives of potential allies wasted, but I cannot not blame my Exiled Cousins for their actions." the Shipmaster said. "The Prophet's lies beguiled us all."

Perry nodded weakly, and feverently tried not to be sick.

He thought of the poor marines and terraformers who had spent their last living moments here, entombed deep beneath the sands of Crassus. The constant stench, the musty heat. Imprisoned in the dark, waiting to by carved up by the alien fanatics with long, gleaming knives. Perry shuddered, and turned to leave. He'd seen enough.

It was then that a luminescent tentacle landed on his shoulder.

Perry shrieked.


	18. Homecoming

_"In hindsight, it was the robust nature of the Human defences that made all the difference. If only that had been enough... "_

_- Shipmaster Agur 'Kalum, sixty years after the closing of hostilities on Crassus, ONI Interview 34/241 "Accounts of the Crassus Campaign - A Collection."_

* * *

The Elites swung about, weapons drawn.

"False alarm," Rukth scowled, lowering his twin plasma rifles. They all relaxed, resuming their investigation of the Outcast's hideout.

Perry had never seen a Covenant Engineer before. It was hideous. A curious, translucent creature, it consisted of a large bubbly mass of flesh, whose face tapered down into a formless snout. It reminded Perry of an oversized jellyfish. The floated effortlessly above the ground. Six blinking eyes regarded him curiously. Its skin had an oily, reflective quality, and a series of inquisitive tentacles reached out and pawed at him. The only sound it made was a cooing warble.

"Perry-Human, stop bothering the Huragok." Rukth scolded.

"Will do, but you might want to tell the Huragok to stop bothering the Perry-Human..." Perry replied nervously. The Huragok was intent on poking him with its

slimy tentacles.

"Are you carrying any damaged items?" Vtan asked.

"Erm, yeah. My flight helmet's in my backpack, but the com's smashed and the visor's cracked." Perry had held onto the helmet out of habit, more so than anything else. He'd invested too much down-time doodling on it to simply abandon it. He swatted aside another probing tentacle.

"But I don't see what that has to do with anything…"

"Give it to the Huragok." Vtan prompted.

"What?"

"Trust me, Friend Perry." The Shipmaster's soothed. "Give your helmet to the Huragok. It means no harm."

The pilot hesitated as he considered.

"Okay, but he'd better not eat it."

Perry shrugged off his back-pack, digging a hand into it. After a few seconds of rummaging about, he produced the flight helmet with a flourish. Heavy scratches coated the matt-green casing. The com-section had burst open from where it had impacted against the Brute Chieftain's armour. Wires hung out like exposed entrails. It really was a mess.

Suddenly the Huragok's tentacles shot out, snatching it from his grasp.

"Hey!" Perry exclaimed in surprise.

What came next happened too fast to follow. The Engineer's tentacles split into a thousand different strands, each barely visible to the naked eye. Perry had just taken a step back to admire the Engineer's handiwork when - just as quickly as it was taken away - the tentacles shot forward again, thrusting the helmet back into his hands.

Perry's mouth fell open.

The helmet had been completely repaired. The com-system, which had been exposed to the open air and clogged with sand, was now neatly sealed and fully restored. The work was seamless. Even the crack in the visor was gone. But for the scratches and a thin film of dust, the helmet could have been factory fresh. Perry looked up to say thanks, but the enigmatic Engineer had already floated off, tentacles searching for something new to fix. It twitched like a smoker trying to quit. It stopped by Rukth, who stood perfectly still as its tentacles worked its magic on his shield system.

Vtan patted Perry on the back.

"Now you see why I wished to retrieve the Huragok. They too will serve as useful allies in the struggle ahead."

Perry managed a single, stunned nod.

* * *

It was time to return to Horizon.

Six of them would go. Three humans, three Elites.

Those chosen stood apart from the assembled army of Separatists. They alone would carry the message of peace, and defy a generations of bitter hatred.

From his warriors, Vtan selected Rukth, as both his advisor and closest friend, as well as Zuka, for his particularly friendly disposition toward humanity in general. Molikos had protested not being selected, pledging his undying support to the Shipmaster. It was right about when the Outcast leader had referred to the diplomatic mission as an 'assault deep into the Human citadel' that Vtan firmly ordered him to stay with the refugees.

Vtan appreciated the symmetry of having an equal number of humans and Sangheili. It also offered a safe practicality: the less Elites he brought, the less chances of their quest ending in an unwanted confrontation.

The time came for farewells.

Rukth and Zerat saluted each other.

"Try not to get yourself killed, Brother," The sniper clenched his fist across his breastplate, "I do not seek advancement quite yet."

"I shall keep that in mind, friend Zerat." Rukth returned the gesture, "We shall send word within a day."

"May our ancestors guide you, Squad Leader."

They were ready to go. One final thing was delaying their departure.

The Hunters were reluctant to let Sarah go. Vtan looked down the little human with quiet amazement. It was not easy to win over the Mgalekgolo. They were normally such elusive, enigmatic creatures. Haughty too. It had taken the Shipmaster twelve full cycles of tireless service _aboard his own ship_ to win their loyalty and respect. This human had done the same - and more - within a mere three days.

The youngling didn't even seem to fear the giants, despite the fact that they could crush her in an instant. Such mettle was truly rare. Whoever had raised her was a strong warrior, worthy of respect.

"It is time to go, Youngling." The Shipmaster said kindly, "Your kind awaits."

She nodded, suddenly eager to see her Mom again. Sarah frowned, a wave of uncertainty crossing her face. She bet Mom was gonna be real mad when she came home. Still, she _had_ brought a packed lunch. That ought to soften the blow. Sarah turned and ran over to the Hunters, hugging each of their legs in turn.

"Seeya Jib!" she beamed, waving enthusiastically. "Seeya Jubb!"

Vtan and Rukth exchanged a quizzical look.

"Jib…?" Vtan asked, head skewed.

"I too remain puzzled, Shipmaster." Rukth agreed.

The two Hunters snuffled in amusement.

Meanwhile, Howard stood apart, not really one to get sentimental. Truth be told, he was itching to go, eager to report back in. He'd had enough time hanging around the same aliens who'd almost ritualistically gutted him, thanks very much. He knew who his enemies were. More than that, he just wanted a goddamn shower. His fatigues were soaked in sweat and clung to his back. The long march having pushed even his impressive endurance. It would be good to be home. He closed his eyes and sighed in anticipation.

Tightening his backpack's straps on his shoulders, Perry moved to join the others. Carried in the crook of his arm was his recently repaired flight helmet. Behind him, the Elites hammered their breastplates as one. Of all the humans, Perry-Human had impressed them the most. Perry, not keen to disabuse them of the notion that he too was a proud and noble warrior, turned and saluted them, UNSC style. The Elites warbled in amusement. Some of them even mimicked the gesture.

Zuka accepted a carbine from one of the Spec Ops, before hurrying over to join the others.

"Exciting times, friend Perry," The red Elite exclaimed happily, " your commanders will surely have need of a pilot of my skill!"

"Of course," Perry assured him. Secretly, he was hoping Major Abelev wouldn't simply kill them all on sight.

Just as they turned to depart, Sarah ran back a few paces, stopped, and waved one last time. Perry called out to her, sternly urging her to come along. Reluctantly, she traipsed back to Vtan and the others, head hung low. The Grunts waved manically, unsure what was going on, but joining in anyway. The Hunters roared, deep and proud, banging their massive cannon against their silver shields in fond farewell to their young human friend.

* * *

"You know, Sergeant," Specialist Smith was saying, "We really could be used elsewhere. 'Resources critical to the war effort' and all that jazz. Somehow, I don't think I'm being all I can be right about now."

"Shut it, Smith." Came the filtered response.

"Seriously, Sir, we've got all these militia - can't we just let _them_ do all the digging?"

"I said shut it, trooper. Now hand me that entrenching tool. Lazy bollocks."

The two ODST troopers were digging. Correction: Murphy was digging, and Smith was busy resting on the end of his shovel. Evidently it was a talking shovel, designed for sitting on, rather than digging. Smith was a young man with a broken nose and a big mouth. Bickering with Murphy was his favourite past-time. Where the sergeant went for humour and succeeded, Smith simply settled on being obnoxious. It was his default setting, and it was driving Murphy crazy.

Murphy's shovel cracked into yet another rock. He swore violently.

"Feck it. Right, that does it. You're up, trooper."

"But I was just digging for the past half-"

"Do you see me giving a shite?"

"You're wearing your helmet. And the visor's polarised"

"Exactly." The Sergeant tapped the side of the opal visor. "And I _always_ wear my helmet. Hence and therefore, you'll never see me giving a shite.

Murphy handed him the entrenchment tool.

"Now dig." he ordered. "And make it sexy."

Murphy left Smith swearing in the trench, making his way over to where the rest of his squad were overseeing the construction of the eastern defences. The other eight commandos, bedecked in their full-faced combat gear, stood out conspicuously amongst the rest of the militia. This was the down-side of Abelev's _Instil and Inspire_ motto.

Murphy was a soldier, not a digger.

As the preparations continued, and the weapons drilling became more widespread amongst the populace, Murphy's elite had been able to divert more time away from the demanding challenges of teaching people how to turn off a safety catch. Other teachers, colonists included, had stepped up to the challenge, and the rate at which the colony learned had increased exponentially, gaining momentum with each passing day.

Students became teachers, and the cycle continued. It also served to reinforce the former students in what they'd learned. It was a welcome respite, even for somebody as energetic as Murphy. Unfortunately, it also consigned him to digging duty. Still, it made him privy to some interesting observations.

The first thing he noticed was the colonists' new-found dress code. As the rag-tag militia slowly melded into a fighting army after hours and hours of intensive drilling, an unofficial "uniform" had begun to emerge. For the most part, the militia adopted bright orange construction overalls as their basic fatigues. As the material was exposed to the open sunlight and the sucking sand in the base of the trenches, it began to blend and bleach considerably. It blended with the surrounding desert surprisingly well.

Strapped over their overalls were standard issue grey flak vests, kneepads and matching combat helmets, courtesy of the city's automated refineries. They all wore thick-soled hiking boots, which offered good ankle support but chafed the skin raw. Blisters were common. Murphy advised them all to wear double layers of socks. Though horrendously sweaty, it proved to be a more favourable alternative to being skinned by your own footwear.

When viewed as a whole, the militia had evolved into a respectable fighting force. Of course, they could never even hope to compare to UNSC Marines, but with a dead-line of less than a week, the results were impressive nonetheless.

One thing which set them apart from the UNSC personnel was their gear. It was out-dated, the design specs having been phased out years ago, but with Horizon's automated munitions bay being what it was, they would take what they could get. Certainly, it was better than nothing.

Most single militia troopers carried mass-produced MA5Bs, as well as ten clips of ammunition. The factory-vomited MA5Bs were heavily cut-down versions of the original Marine issue ones, lacking the rifles integrated warfare suite. In the greater scheme of things that hardly mattered; the militia would have little use for in-built directional compasses when the Covenant were bearing down on them.

What really betrayed the militia's improvised nature were the quirks. Occasionally, some would insist on wielding civilian-issue scatterguns and M90 MK II combat shotguns, appropriated from the Anchises' surplus armoury.

Murphy didn't see these quirks as a bad thing. Far from it: to him, it was an opportunity. He went out and cherry-picked the most hard-assed trackers, survivalists and hunters he could find, giving them double-training rotations instead of wasting their talents doing manual labour. Even now, they were still off training while he was here, digging holes.

_Murphy's Militia_, they called themselves. He'd laughed pretty hard at that at first.

He wasn't laughing now. The natural ability which some of them displayed was unnerving. More than once, Murphy swore that the UNSC should have sent its recruiters to Horizon first. What made them truly lethal, however, was their affinity with the terrain. They were a professional guerrilla army in the making, desert fighters whose field-craft was better than anything he'd ever seen. The ODST sergeant would make damn sure they were employed effectively when the time came.

Continuing his inspection, Murphy hopped down into a finished trench.

Like all of the outer trenches, the trench lip came up to shoulder height at its lowest point. There was a fire-step, made from a durable wooden duckboard, which the soldiers could use to gain a better - albeit riskier - view of the battlefield. Interspersed at regular intervals along the trench line were machine guns and anti-armour rocket tubes, affixed to skeletal bipods. The latter were of civilian origin, and their crude design reflected their origins. Each support station was manned by a loader and a gunner. These outer trenches were considerably shallower than the inner trenches, and were designed for temporary occupation. They would the most the exposed to enemy attack, and would therefore bear the brunt of the assault.

Filling the gap between each weapon would be the militia squads themselves. Each militia fire-team was comprised of fifteen people, including a medic, a squad leader and - most importantly - a communications officer. The com-specialist, usually drawn from former Navy personnel, hefted a bulky field radio on their backpacks. Scrounging up the ancient com sets had taken someone, somewhere an ungodly amount of time and effort. Like all their equipment, they were out-dated, but resources were tight, and they were the only common radio variant available to militia units.

Their role was crucial. Coordinating the disparate squads would either make or break the defence.

The outer trenches extended some six hundred metres outside Horizon's looming curtain wall. Those closer to the perimeter were far deeper and more intricate in design. Fortunately for Murphy, their design was so complex it took industrial grade construction equipment to make them, so he was free from having to worry about them. He had many talents, but operating a drilling rig wasn't one of them.

Murphy nodded in greeting to the conscripts hunkered down in the bottom of the trench. They were hiding beneath the trench-lip, taking refuge in the shade. Many of them held cigarettes between their lips. They cupped their hands protectively around the cigs, trying to shelter their lighters from the whistling wind.

"How are things, lads?" Murphy asked jovially.

"Good, Sir. We're doing pretty good. Just on a break." answered Potts, a sweaty guy with a pugnacious chin and sunken eyes. Obviously an ex-office worker, he was finding the manual labour tough. His hands shook as he took a drag, betraying the tension he was feeling.

"Well don't sweat it when the time comes." Murphy replied, "My team are going to be right over there in the next trench. Just do what we do, and you'll be fine."

"Will do, Chief."

"Careful, I could get used to you calling me that." Murphy paused before he went to move on. He noticed the carpet of cigarette butts littering the trench floor. "Oh, and another thing - no smokes after dark. If you light up, you'll screw your night vision, and I'm going to need you all sharp when darkness falls. If I catch anyone smoking - and believe me I will, I've got night vision in this bucket of mine - then they're going to get their arses kicked. Clear?"

"Crystal, Sir."

Murphy nodded, then pushed past to continue his rounds.

He never got the chance. His helmet mic chattered in his ear. It was Smith.

"Uh Sergeant…" The other commando's voice came over the link.

"I swear to God, Smith, if you're not digging that hole, I'm seriously going to cram that entrenchment tool up your -"

"We've got a situation here, Sir."

Smith never sounded serious unless he had a reason. Murphy started to run.

"Give me sit-rep, trooper."

"Sir, I…I can't explain, you're going to have to see for yourself."

Legs pumping, Murphy sprinted back the other way, swinging his BR-55 into his hands. His trademark MA5B banged roughly against his hip. Potts' men dove out of the way, terrified at the sight of the fully armed commando bearing down on them. Murphy vaulted out of the trench, and hurried up to the small ridge Smith had gone prone behind. Smith's own battle rifle was sighted and ready to fire. Murphy touched a hand to the side of his helmet, triggering the in-built binoculars.

"What the _Christ_."

"That's what I said." Smith agreed.

Approaching them, heads held high, strode a cluster of humans and Elites. They waded through the ankle-high sand with a certain swagger, a confidence borne from shared hardship. Against all odds, they'd made it. Even the swirling dust seemed to part around them. Adjusting the dial, Murphy zoomed closer. Perched atop the red Elite's shoulders was the Administrator Jenning's daughter.

At the front strode Warmonger, waving a white sheet above his head. Beside him marched two massive warriors, one white - an Ultra, by the armour - and one black. Murphy also made out Sergeant Howard from Alpha Platoon, he too was waving his arms frantically.

Three humans, all assumed KIA, had just come back from the dead.

And they were not alone.

"Get me the major," Murphy said into the wide-band channel. "ASAP."

The major's voice crackled over the air-waves.

"This is Abelev. What is it, Murphy?"

"Sir, you're never going to believe this…"


	19. Standoff

_"No way in hell am I letting those goddamn split-lips into my city."_

_- Major Gregor Abelev, upon receiving Staff Sergeant Murphy's transmission. "Accounts of the Crassus Campaign - A Collection."_

* * *

Standing before the ominous Eastern Gate, the refugees looked like ants.

A thousand weapons were trained on them. On the city walls, heavy .50 calibre gun emplacements swivelled and locked onto them, ready to smear them across the desert floor at the drop of a hat. On the ridgeline ahead, crouched behind a bulwark of shored up dirt, a full team of ODST commandos had them in their sights, their fingers hovering on the militia scrambled into firing positions, the marines crying out frantic instructions, trying to keep them calm lest one of them accidentally open fire. In this situation, a single set of nerves could lead to a murderous outcome.

Perry's legs began to shake.

He desperately waved the flag some more, acutely aware that the tattered rag was more an off-grey than a white. Unfortunately, the Outcasts had few resources to work with. It was that or purple, and as the Covenant's primary colour, that would have been a bad choice. Howard was desperately signing the word "safe" in UNSC sign language. Hopefully one of the spotters would pick it up.

After an uneasy silence descended, Rukth twisted his head slightly toward Vtan, barely daring to move.

"Are you sure this was wise, Brother?" he whispered fiercely.

"Wait." Vtan's voice held firm. His eyes never left the massive gate.

"Can we go inside now?" Sarah asked loudly, oblivious to the tension. "I'm want to see Mom."

"Not just yet, Youngling." Vtan soothed.

Seconds dragged into agonising minutes. Still, nobody breathed. Eventually, the massive steel gate groaned open, its sand-choked hinges creaking in protest. A team of marines filed out, forming a crisp honour guard. At their head strode Administrator Jennings, as well as a thunderous Gregor Abelev.

Unwavering, the special forces didn't so much as blink as Jennings stepped past.

As the administrator drew closer, her hand shot up to her mouth when she saw Sarah. Sarah, in turn, slapped Zuka impatiently on the side of the head. He grumbled indignantly, and stooped to one knee. She hopped down, darting forward into her mother's waiting arms. Amanda clung to her as if she'd never let go, closing her eyes. Silent tears of relief streaked down her face.

Major Abelev stepped past them, stopping a few paces short. He took a deep sniff of the air, wrinkled his nose, and spat on the ground in disgust.

He didn't speak. It was Perry who broke the silence.

"Sir, I can explain…" the pilot began.

"Can it, Warmonger." The major's eyes bored deep into the Shipmaster's. Vtan met his stare openly. The major's lips worked slowly, incapable of finding the right words to voice his contempt. When he did finally strangle them out, they were directed at Perry.

"What in Sam hell are you doing bringing these goddamn…" his lips curled around the next work, "…_squid-heads_ to my city?"

"Say that again, Human, and I shall remove your throat with my _teeth_." Rukth growled.

Vtan touched his friend's arm, forestalling any further confrontation. He continued to hold Abelev's gaze.

"We do not come here as enemies, Human." Vtan spoke deeply, "We have not come to conquer. Not today."

"_Bullshit_." Abelev retorted venomously. He looked like he was going to hop on the Shipmaster any second. "All you _do_ is conquer. I've seen what your kind do more times than I can count. Now give me three good reasons why I should trust you."

Vtan simply pointed to Sarah and Amanda, who had almost melded into a single entity by this point.

"Is that not reason enough?"

He then indicated Perry and Howard "Or perhaps you need two others?"

Abelev scowled and activated the com fastened to his cuff.

"All units, prepare to fire."

The honour guard dropped to one knee, racking the slides on their battle rifles in unison. Howard raised his arms over his head.

The three Elites remained still. Rukth's fingers twitched at the triggers of his holstered weapons. If he was to die, he would do so fighting.

Perry stepped in front of the Elites, arms spread. The marines looked at each other, unsure. Even Vtan's eyes widened in surprise.

"Sir, you're making a big mistake." Perry's voice was steady.

"Stand aside, pilot." Abelev ordered firmly.

"With respect, Sir; no, I won't."

"I said _stand aside_, boy." Abelev's eyes were slits. Perry was decidedly conscious of the fact that, in the distance, Murphy's entire fire team had levelled their weapons in his direction. His leg began to shake even harder, but he didn't budge.

Abelev scowled.

"I'm not gonna ask you again, son."

"Stand down, major." Amanda Jennings' voice came from behind him.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I cannot do that. This is military business."

Administrator Jennings walked around, getting right in his face. Neither of them blinked. Sarah, held in Amanda's arms, shrank back, upset by the icy atmosphere.

"And this is a civilian colony… and the entire city just watched you form a weapons detail pointing right at the people directly responsible for bringing my daughter home safely. Go ahead and shoot them, but if you do, I guarantee you won't survive the walk home."

"Are you threatening me, Administrator?"

"I don't have to: you know what my colonists are like."

Abelev's eye twitched as he reached into his pocket, drawing out the denuded remains of a heavily chewed cigar stump. He set it in the corner of his mouth and chewed furiously for a moment. Then he spat it out on the ground, making his disgust perfectly clear. He keyed his com.

"All units, stand down. I say again: stand down."

Releasing the com switch, he then fixed his glare on Amanda.

"If this goes badly, it's on your head." he said, levelling a pointed finger at her, "I'll gladly hang you all for treason. You understand?"

"Oh, I'm sure." the Administrator smiled frostily.

Abelev turned smartly on his heel and stormed off. As he approached, the marines parted in the middle, snapping to attention.

"Amanda Jennings." Amanda extended her hand toward Vtan "Administrator of Horizon."

He looked at the gesture curiously for a second, before finally comprehending what to do.

"Vtan 'Arume." His hand swallowed hers. "Shipmaster of the _Pride of Sangheilios_."

With that, the refugees, humans and Elites alike, marched through the gap between the frozen honour guard. Thousands of colonists stared at them, bewildered and terrified.

The procession marched through the yawning gate into the city beyond. As they passed under the gate's looming threshold, Zuka bowed his head toward Perry, his voice low.

"Tell me, friend Perry," Zuka whispered "Are human interactions always this volatile..?"


	20. The Calm Before the Storm

_"The hardest part was the waiting. Give me a thousand Covies any day - just don't ask me to wait for 'em..."_

- Corporal Jeffrey Thompson, Bravo Platoon, "Accounts of the Crassus Campaign - A Collection".

* * *

A day of nervous tension followed. Abelev withdrew to his office, livid with Jennings for having undermined his authority in front of the entire colony. Furious, he buried himself in analysing the various reports streaming in from the defence lines, viewing and reviewing tactical assessments submitted by the Marines on the ground with a passion almost bordering on obsession.

Half an hour after his return to Horizon, Perry sat in Administrator Jennings' office, his cold mug of coffee trying valiantly to stem off the blanket of exhaustion which threatened to overcome him. It wasn't working. His eyelids scraped like sand-paper, leaden with fatigue. Sarah was curled up on the room's only couch, the dramatic events of the previous three days having finally overwhelmed her.

He envied her. Unlike Sarah, unfortunately, Perry was still active naval personnel, and as such had to be debriefed by somebody in charge. With the UNSC officers all occupied with finalising the northern defences, and with Abelev having just threatened Perry with death, that left the Administrator herself.

The entire room was sparse and functional. The Administrator herself was seated behind her desk, which looked as old and tired as she did. Splayed out on the tabletop in front of her were a smattering of supply appraisals. Overseeing the delegation of rations was her responsibility. She frowned.

Enforcing it was Abelev's.

"Something the matter?" Perry asked.

"_Abelev_." she scowled. "He's rerouted half of the shelters' supplies back to the defence lines. I swear he's just trying to spite me by this point."

"I can see his logic. If the lines fall…" the pilot trailed off.

"The non-combatants will have more than hunger to worry about." she finished grimly. "I know, but this isn't going to work if the colonists and the military aren't even on speaking terms."

An uncomfortable silence descended.

"You know," Perry piped up brightly, "That was a pretty ballsy thing you did back there. Standing up to him like that."

She laughed, a brittle laugh that betrayed the immense pressure on her.

"Please, I could hardly let him shoot you. Not after you brought my daughter back." Her expression softened, "I never thanked you for that, by the way."

"Don't thank me, Administrator." Perry nodded toward the glass office window, where Vtan, Rukth and Zuka waited in the lobby beyond. They were huddled in a tight cluster, rumbling to each other in their own language. "That was all their doing."

Amanda sat back in her chair, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"The Elites, you really do trust them, don't you?" she asked.

"It's not as simple as that, Ma'am." Perry looked uncomfortable. The major's accusations of treason had not sat well with him.

Amanda laughed.

"Relax, Lieutenant Perry, you look positively constipated. Nobody's judging you. Call me Amanda."

"Dave, then."

"Alright, Dave, if it's not that simple, perhaps you can explain it to me."

Perry stared down into his mug. It was almost cold.

"Well, Amanda, I think they realise the situation they're in, and they're doing what they think is right. Now I've been in a whole slew of engagements against them, clocked up plenty of combat hours in both drop birds and AV-14s, and from what I've heard from the grunts, they're a pretty consistent bunch. Murderous bastards, but consistently so."

"So you think they're on the level when they say they want peace?"

"From the time I've spent with them… yes, yes I do." He leaned forward, lowering his voice, "I think they're here right now more for a chance to get back at the Brutes than to save their own skins. Whatever went down between the two, it's pretty bitter. The Elites know they'll pack more of a punch with us on their side, rather than being caught smack in the middle."

"I see. I imagine the UNSC is going to want to hear about all this, if and when they ever decide to send a search party. About their leader, Vtan, what do you think? You got him figured out too?"

"I think I have the measure of him, yeah…" Perry scratched at his stubble thoughtfully, "He's telling the truth, but he's also a politician. Generally cares about his people, but definitely thinks everything through." He grinned, "A bit like you, really."

"You think I'm a self-serving politician?" The Administrator raised an eyebrow.

"Absolutely." Perry nodded, "All politicians are. You wouldn't have stuck your neck out like that unless it won you more support from the people. The colonists here haven't seen the full extent of this war. They've lived it vicariously: overhearing net broadcasts, anecdotes from the marines, rumours, et cetera, et cetera. They wouldn't have thought twice if Abelev gunned down me and the big nasty aliens beside me. You knew that, and you _also_ knew - for the good of the colony - that you _needed_ to hear what those Elites had to say. So you improvised. You didn't make it about _us_ versus _the aliens_. You made the issue about you and me versus Abelev, and put him in a position where he had a choice between giving in to you... or starting a mutiny he couldn't afford. You give a shit, no question, but - like the Shipmaster out there - you show it strategically."

"You're making me out to sound like a monster." Amanda looked appalled. He shook his head adamantly.

"Only because you know the people will benefit from having someone like you to rally behind. _Instil and Inspire_, isn't that what the major's lackeys are calling it? You do it. Vtan does it too. From where I'm sitting, it's part of what being a good leader is all about"

"You're a pretty observant guy, Dave. Astute, even."

He answered with a modest shrug.

"Pilots are meant to be able to see things pretty clearly. Comes with the trade."

"Regardless, you seem pretty well informed. Which begs the question..." She leaned forward, knitting her fingers together, "If you were in my position, what would you do?"

Perry set the coffee mug down. He looked at her frankly.

"You and the Shipmaster, you both want the same thing. Victory. Survival. But there's more at stake here. You've got a great opportunity to do _more_ than just win a battle. Here's a chance to bring in a major ally against the Covenant. _Use it_. The Elites have been our enemies for so long, maybe it'd be nice to have them on our side for a change."

"Oh, I fully intend to, believe me." She spared a glance out the window, toward the Elites. "You're right in saying this could be a turning point in not only UNSC history, but our entire history as a species. God willing, I _will_ seize the moment." She looked back at him steadily. "But I'm going to need your help to do it."

"What do you need me to do?" Perry felt a tangle of worry knot into his belly. He had a nasty feeling what was coming next. Her warm smile confirmed every one of his fears.

"Congratulations, David Perry. As of this moment, you're mankind's first liaison with an alien race."

* * *

"-I disagree strongly with Rukth's opinion, Shipmaster. Perry-Human is a friend to the Sangheili. He would not intentionally place us in harm's way." Zuka was shaking his head.

Rukth simply glared at him, his terse reply cut short as Vtan raising his hand to once more forestall any bickering.

"Calm yourselves, Brothers. The Humans approach."

The office door clicked open. Perry's head popped out, looking decidedly awkward for having intruded.

"The, uh, Administrator is ready to see you now." Perry winced inwardly. Seeing through politicians he could handle, but he really wasn't cut out for diplomatic work at all. "Please, come in."

The Elites filed into the office. They had to duck their heads to avoid bumping them against the ceiling. By Horizon's standards, it was a wide and spacious room, generously so. With three Sangheili stooping inside it, it suddenly seemed cramped and suffocating. Amanda rose to her feet, her expression neutral.

Vtan doffed his helmet, revealing his face to her as mark of courtesy. Perry recoiled in terror, at the sight of the Shipmaster's fearsome visage. In spite of the row of serrated teeth, however, the Shipmaster's eyes were a soulful amber. He bowed his head.

"Shipmaster." She inclined her head respectfully

"Administrator." Vtan nodded, "I thank you for granting us an audience. I can understand your reticence, given our respective histories."

"In light of what Flight Officer Perry here has told me, it's the least I could do." Perry flushed as they all nodded their thanks at him, "But let's make one thing clear: the good graces you've earned by saving my daughter is the only thing keeping Major Abelev's troops - and the rest of this city - from tearing you to pieces. What dictates whether or not that condition changes depends on what it is you intend to do now that you're here."

"Your honesty is appreciated, Administrator." Vtan replied calmly, "Time is short, so I shall be brief. The Jiralhanae - what your people call the Brutes - have come to this world pursuing my Brothers and I. Great changes sweep through our society, and the Covenant - once strong - has been sundered."

Amanda and Perry exchanged a look. Their speculation had been right on the money.

"As you are no doubt aware, one of their carriers now sits in orbit, searching for us. Since their arrival, they have become aware of your kind's presence here, and will undoubtedly extend their genocidal ambitions to encompass every single Human on this planet. Their masters would expect no less."

He leaned forward, resting his massive hands on the edge of the table.

"Your preparations have been admirable thus far, Administrator. Your major has achieved laudable work in the little time given. But it will not be enough. The carrier of which I spoke - it carries numbers fit for the conquering of an entire _world_, let alone a single city. In space, we struck a blow against them at the cost of our own ship, but it was not enough. Their ship still lives, as do most of the warriors within it. Even wounded, the Jiralhanae are no less dangerous. If anything, it will make them all the more determined to succeed. They will come, and they will seek to kill us all."

His amber eyes bore deep into her own. He blinked, in that slow thoughtful way so natural to Elites, and continued.

"But there is a solution. In the past, Humans have always proven to be worthy adversaries to the Sangheili. Resilient, defiant and - above all - inventive, your spirit does you credit. Truth be told, there were many occasions when I personally questioned why the Hierarchs did not extend to you the Writ of Union, and bind us together as one."

"Our races have been enemies for many cycles. You know our strengths, and - indeed - our weaknesses. But the Jiralhanae are a different opponent entirely. You Humans have little experience with their kind, and the tactics with which they prosecute war. You will need to adapt and change, for to stagnate is to give them an opening which they will surely take advantage of. Though primitive, they undeniably possess greater firepower, resources and weight of numbers; more than anything you could hope to bring to bear alone."

"It is fortunate, however, that strength of arm alone will dictate who wins this battle. For all their power, their war machine lacks refinement. With your ingenuity, and my warriors' skill, we both stand a greater chance of surviving the coming storm. My offer is simple: survive as one, or perish alone. Together, we must unite against this common enemy!" He thumped the table with his fist. The datapads rattled.

"_The Enemy of my Enemy is my Friend_." Jennings mused softly.

"The ancient saying is known to your people as well?" Rukth blurted out, astounded.

"Indeed it is." Abelev's voice growled from the doorway. He'd been standing there for some time, arms crossed. They all turned to look at him. A strange smile settled on his lips. "Not that I'd ever call one of you _squid-heads_ a friend."

Rukth snarled and looked as though he was about to take the major's head off. He would have to, had Jennings not intervened.

"Is there something I can help you with, Major?" Jennings asked politely. Panic flared in Perry's chest, but the major was unarmed.

"Actually I came to apologise. Kinda lost my temper out there." Abelev's scarred face almost looked sheepish. Almost. "Call me old school, but it ain't polite to talk down to a lady. Especially when she's in charge."

Abelev turned his squinting stare toward Vtan. His mouth chewed on an unlit cigar.

He plucked it out, then spoke.

"Our scans just picked up a large assault force inbound from the northern badlands. Estimates are between fourteen and fifteen thousand Covenant troops. Now, I've fought you alien bastards plenty times before, and I know full well that's only the first to come. I've been listening here for about two minutes - and if what you say is true - I'm willing to overlook the fact that you're pure scum. For the moment. There's gonna be more Covie comin', and I don't exactly have much to work with here."

He sauntered into the office, his brow wrinkled.

"As much as I hate to admit it, I could damn well use your help."

"And our assistance you shall receive."

Vtan clamped his helmet into place, then folded a fist against his breast-plate. As courteous as ever, he bowed.

"You will find my warriors to be worthy friends as well as foes."

"Now don't get too friendly on me," Abelev scowled, before saluting, "I'll fight alongside ye, but that doesn't mean I have to_ like_ it."

Jennings clapped her hands together decisively, to fill the awkward pause.

"Then today we make history, gentlemen. What's our first move?"

Vtan turned to Rukth. His mandibles twitched in a grin.

"Send word to our troops. Tell them that, today, the time for hiding is at an end."

* * *

Three hours later, they came.

A long stream of marching Sangheili, led by Zerat and the two clanking Mgalekgolo. The Unggoy twittered amongst themselves nervously, as the human fortress rose up in front of them. Vtan and Abelev, side by side on the Eastern Curtain Wall, watched as the refugees strode into the city beneath them. Abelev ignored the tall Sangheili for the most part, content to peer through his binoculars with a poorly-disguised air of disgust.

Meanwhile, Vtan scanned the trench lines, suitably impressed.

The Inner Trenches were more comparable to a dry moat than a fox-hole. There were two of them nestled against the base of the curtain wall, each one twenty feet in depth. A bulging bulwark of heaped soil separated the two. Each had been paved with a thick layer of concrete, which in turn had been laid with sturdy metal plating to facilitate the safe movement of munitions trucks and heavier vehicles.

Occasionally, the trench floor would rise up in places, allowing for UNSC vehicles to move up and open fire accordingly. Placed for exactly this purpose were four M808B Scorpion Main Battle Tanks, hull down in the northern trenches. In this position, they could unload on the advancing enemy forces while at the same time shield themselves from incoming fire. Their turrets whirred noisily as they angled toward the north, waiting.

Inside the Inner Trenches, a series of metal ladders led up to a steel walk-way, complete with a wooden fire-step, which was fixed halfway up the trench wall. The walls themselves were coated in wire mesh, so as to maintain structural integrity. Communications bunkers and miniature aid stations were hollowed out in regular intervals, providing a nearby infrastructure to support the forward troops. The only place where these massive warrens ended was at each of the four main gates. The sheer depth of the trenches only served to make the gate entrance look like they were preceded by massive ramps of hard-baked soil, which loomed high above.

The Humans had truly outdone themselves.

Vtan turned his attention to the area beyond the outer trenches.

" My forces may make some slight adjustments to your defences, to account for the Jiralhanae's tactics." he noted.

"Be my guest." Abelev grunted, "Just make sure they don't wander into the minefield."

"Minefield?"

"Yup, there's a minefield just outside the outer trench line. It's remote activated, but I still wouldn't recommend going out there if I were you."

"How long before the Jiralhanae arrive?" Vtan asked.

"Two days."

"Time is short. Any further preparations will have to be made quickly."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Vtan privately wondered who Sherlock was, but did not enquire further.

Over the next two days they prepared themselves, humans and Sangheili, side by side in Horizon's many trenches. The Elites positioned themselves in any gaps left by the hordes of human militia, overseeing squads of diminutive Unggoy. The defences teemed with frantic activity. Knowing that the battle was coming, the Elites did not speak, instead choosing to watch the horizon with a muted air of anticipation. The night before the battle began, the only sound was the mournful cawing of vultures, as they swooped down on Crassus' pitiful vermin.

It was the calm before the storm.

* * *

Engines throbbing in the black night, the _Jiral'han _blasted ahead of the main assault.

Pack Leader Kekherus gunned the throttle again, grinning to himself as the massive chopper flew over a crevice with a jolting bump. Like the rest of the Attack Bikes, his vehicle was ostensibly two gargantuan front wheels contained within a sloping, tusk-like prow, which was attached to a small grav unit and a reclining pilot's chair. The control handles sloped backwards, and even the Jiralhanae had to reach upwards to grip them. His own bike differed in that it had been adorned with an extra set of chrome spikes on the front, denoting his seniority. They curled forward like savage antlers. He had won many victories sitting in this saddle. He snorted in the cool night air, the wind whistling against his amber head-crest.

"Onward, Pack-Brothers," Kekherus urged them on with a wave of his Gravity Hammer, "Our food awaits!"

The _Jiral'han_ howled in blood-lust and accelerated. Like Kekherus, they were hungry for battle.

They would reach the Human Citadel come sunrise.


	21. The Battle of the Northern Gate

_"The sound, I'll never forget that sound. Engines, deep and growling..." _

- Jessica Finchley, Militia Conscript, "Accounts of the Crassus Campaign - A Collection".

* * *

The storm came over the horizon, easily visible from three miles away. A tornado of sand rose up into the clear blue sky. The open sky - hidden for so long - was unsettling. On any other day, the conditions would have been described as decent by Crassus standards. Pleasant, even.

Not today.

The Assault Bikes ripped forward across the desert, grav-drives throbbing and engines rattling. Their heavy wheels churned up a thick plume of smoke and dust in their wake. The _Jiral'han_ whooped and cackled as the human citadel rose up before them: an impervious stronghold of steel and concrete. It was time to make war, to break bones and feast upon the corpses of their fallen prey. It was what they were born to do.

One mile short of the human city, Pack-Leader Kekherus raised a gauntleted fist. The _Jiral'han_ fell silent, slewing their bikes to a skidding a halt. For all their bloodlust, they were a tightly drilled and efficient pack. They understood the need for coordination. Nevertheless, their engines purred hungrily in anticipation. Kekherus gunned his own bike forward slightly, swinging it about so that its profile faced the city. He sat back in his saddle, drumming his fingers against the handlebars impatiently. Holy day or not, Malwrekus was certainly taking his time.

Kekherus twisted about, looking past his berserkers toward the impenetrable wall of choking dust they had left behind them.

Slowly, the fog lifted.

All across the horizon, a larger storm rolled inexorably forward. This one was not borne from coughing engines and crunching wheels, but by the combined stamping of over fifteen thousand marching feet. You felt the sound deep in your belly, like the beating of an executioner's drum. The very earth trembled beneath it.

At the front, Wraith battle tanks glided forward gracefully, opening up their plasma cannons to the warm midday sun. They unfolded like lethal blossoms, blooming with the promise of destruction. Behind them, shielded by a long line of shimmering energy shields, the Jiralhanae main infantry thundered onward, marching in tightly regimented rectangles. Many of the Unggoy sung songs of faith as they clutched banners and hefted holy relics adorned with flags of rich purple, spurned on by their Deacons. Their raspy voices became one formless cacophony of praise for The Great Journey.

At the back, most dangerous of all, strode the _Unquestionable Truth_, proud and majestic and deadly.

One mile short of the curtain wall, the entire army halted. The singing stopped. The lingering silence seemed louder than any sound the army could make. Banners flapped softly in the gentle breeze. The Jiralhanae squinted in the blinding sun, the occasional sniff and cough punctuating the rank and file as they stood to attention. The heat was unbearable.

The Battle Net crackled into life.

"Warriors, the day has come!" Malwrekus' voice crowed, "Let us celebrate our glorious induction into our most Holy-Covenant… by offering the Gods a feast the likes of which they have never seen. All tanks, fire at will! Wipe this Human blight from the face of the planet!"

In unison, all six Wraiths let off a single volley. It sounded as if the Gods themselves had clapped their approval. Kekherus grinned. How he loved that sound.

At five minutes past noon, on November 12th 2552, the battle began in earnest.

* * *

"Incoming!"

The plasma shells hung in the sky for a moment, graceful balls of blue fire and patient death. Then, like a meteor shower, the comets splashed down across the northern defences, vaporising everything they touched. Several shrieks rent the air as two of the shells scored direct hits. Within the opening salvo, fifty brave colonists lost their lives. One shell burst against the bulwark right in front of Brambley's command squad, hurling up a column of fire and boiled sand twenty feet into the air. They winced as a deluge of smouldering pebbles showered down over them.

"All units, take cover, stay down!" Brambley hollered into the com, "Wait for it to pass!"

For five relentless minutes the shelling continued. The human defences held up admirably, the winding trenches minimising the full extent of the ground-shuddering impacts. All the militia could do was cower and pray in the bottom of their fox-holes, hoping the orbs would land elsewhere. It was a deadly game of chance, one which took no consideration for skill or bravery - all were rendered equal beneath the murderous barrage. Brambley swallowed as he counted the number of enemy vehicles lurking on the horizon, playing his scope from left to right.

"Gimme a sit-rep, lieutenant." Abelev's voice crackled in his ear.

"We've got major incoming, Sir. I make it six Type-25 AGS' and a single Type-47 super heavy, plus more goddamn choppers than I can count."

"Infantry strength?"

"Too many, Sir."

Another plasma shell hammered into the ground beside his position. His men choked and spluttered through the dust cloud. Some of the nearby colonists started praying. Brambley swore and keyed his mic again.

"Sir, we're taking a pounding here; care to return the favour?"

Abelev's gruff voice came back a moment later.

"Sit tight, Bramb. Salvo is inbound."

Inside the city walls, a rail car shrilled to a halt. There was a slow clicking sound as its three long-barrelled cannon inched upwards into position. Each cannon was a 240mm field artillery piece, their barrels a commanding 331 inches long, wrought from flaking iron and smooth steel. Commander Song stood on the viewing tower overlooking the platform, a set of powerful binoculars in his hands.

"Range fifty-two; elevation sixty-six." he called out.

"Aye, Sir. Range fifty-two, elevation sixty six." Ensign Parker echoed, pumping a winch which adjusted the weapons position. It was a primitive system, and back-breaking work. His brow was already slick with sweat.

Down on the train platform, civilian crew loaded shells the size of their torsos into the yawning gullet of the cannons with a heavy _clank_. Munitions carts rattled down on the opposite track, fresh from the automated refineries. Transferring the shells from the carts to the cannon was hard work, and only the strongest men had been selected for the task. They were brawny souls, clad in oil-soaked vests which clung their skin as they toiled under the open sun. They didn't complain, having been conditioned from many hard years down Horizon's mines.

"Ready to fire, Chief!" one of the miners bellowed. Song nodded, then pointed toward the sprawling Covenant army.

"Fire!"

The cannons thundered. The shells fell disappointingly short, a rippling wall of fire exploding ten meters shy of the enemy line. When the smoke cleared, the enemy army remained unscathed.

"Adjust trajectory - your best judgement, Parker!" Song ordered, "Hit 'em again!"

Parker cranked the handle. The howitzers adjusted their trajectory and fired once more.

This time the result was more gratifying. The shells hurtled down into the thick of the Covenant rank and file, detonating in a blistering curtain of destruction. Body parts and wailing Unggoy filled the air. Amazingly, the Covenant host held perfectly still as death rained down upon them, never once breaking formation. Such is the determination of the fanatical. The artillery crew let out a triumphant cheer.

"That's more like it!" Song grinned.

And so the artillery duel continued, each side slugging it out as they loosed shell after shell against their respective lines. Soon, the Curtain Wall's plating had been decorated with a number of white-hot craters, as plasma fire hammered into its surface again and again. It was a primitive contest, harkening back to more primitive times. With his warriors in open terrain, exposed, Malwrekus could ill-afford to let it continue.

The human artillery, though primitive and ungainly, had proved to be the more potent.

Each shell had been packed with a series of smaller bomblets, which spread out upon impact and sowed even more destruction. Moreover, the shells were not limited to one single variant either. Many were simply modified fuel canisters, which coated everything in flammable jelly the moment they struck.

Others took on an even more simplistically ruthless aspect: metal casings packed thick with nails and ball bearings, reinforced with standard issue high-explosive. The results were horrifically effective. The UNSC had learned its lesson from years of dealing with its own internal insurrectionists. If the victims weren't killed by the explosion outright, then they were cut to ribbons by the ensuing cloud-burst of slicing shrapnel. Many of these shells detonated before they hit the ground, air-bursting for maximum effect.

Malwrekus growled as a stray shell fell with stupendously good luck, obliterating one of the Wraiths in a single flash. The heavy plasma mortar's ammunition touched off in a flare of blue energy. The troops around it dived for cover. Some of the Unggoy wailed, and even the Brutes exchanged worried glances. Their iron-clad morale was beginning to slip.

"Enough of this!" Malwrekus bristled. "Kekherus, clear me a path through this rabble. All forces, forward advance, follow the Jiral'han in!"

"But War-Chieftain, our aerial element have yet to engage…" one of the Brute Captains protested.

"Do not question me!" Malwrekus silenced him with a glare, "You heard me, Kekherus, break that city open!"

"With pleasure." Kekherus leered, sweeping his bike about and gunning the throttle forward.

"_Jiral'han_, to me!" he bellowed, pointing toward Horizon with his Gravity Hammer "Show the Gods what true warriors are!"

With an ear-splitting rev of their engines the Jiral'han accelerated to full attack speed.

The second phase of the battle had just begun.

* * *

"Brute choppers inbound!" Sergeant Lake cried, lowering his field glasses and snatching up his MA5C.

"All units, prepare to engage!" Brambley ordered, clambering up onto the firing step of the outer Inner Trench. "I want support weapons and RPGs ready to fire on my signal! Everyone else, hold fire!"

Militia clustered forward, flicking off safety catches and taking up firing positions. A thousand bolts racked back in unison. Loaders hustled to and fro, clinking belts of ammunition laden across their shoulders. The gunners racked back firing bolts and tensed their fingers around the triggers, aligning the incoming enemy in their iron sights. Loading teams slapped rockets the length of their fore-arms into primitive firing tubes, before ducking away to avoid any potential blow-back.

Abelev had taken advantage of the fact that the enemy had only chosen to attack from a single direction, bolstering the defences with even more troops than usual. Forty thousand colonists readied themselves for their first face to face encounter with the enemy.

For many, it would also be their last.

The choppers gunned forward, the edges of their chrome hulls sparkling brilliantly in the sun despite the wall of dust which kicked up around them. Their 35mm cannons thudded, slow and ponderous. Thick tracers lashed toward the militia ranks, occasionally pulping anyone unfortunate enough to be exposed.

"Steady… Steady…." Brambley breathed into the mic.

Enemy shells chopped into the bulwark in front of him. He didn't flinch, keeping his scope trained on a tiny innocuous rock 100 metres away, which had been painted a contrasting black and white. He had to wait for the right moment.

The first chopper swept by the marker.

"Now!"

The militia opened up. Machine guns chattered to life, raking across the front of the vehicles. Tracers sprayed toward the Jiral'han, pinging off their bikes' armoured prows. Rockets shot forward with a dry sneezing sound, spiralling wildly as they arced out. The launchers were notoriously inaccurate, and it was only by pure chance that any of them connected.

Fortunately, what they lacked in accuracy, they made up for in sheer volume. The air was soon thick with the wispy after effects of fading contrails. Dozens of the chrome bikes exploded in the first salvo, the shrapnel flying forwards over the human lines. One unlucky colonist was splattered as flaming wheel skipping forward with lethal velocity.

Still the _Jiral'han_ surged forward. Such was their speed that when they closed the distance between themselves and the human defences, the bikes leapt straight over the lower trenches. Those who were too slow to take duck had their skulls caved in under the monstrous weight of their mighty wheels. As the bikers jumped overhead, the militia opened up with their MA5Bs at point blank range. Riders tumbled from the saddle, riddled with bullets. Carnage was absolute.

Kekherus growled as one of the snarling antlers of his bike was chipped by a random bullet. The enemy's defences were thicker than anticipated. He needed to dilute their firepower. He waved to the right with his hammer, then held the weapon straight up. In response to his signal, half of the bikers peeled off from the main thrust in two groups, circling around either side of the city. The Chieftain led the remainder straight in, gunning toward the inner trenches.

Brambley watched in dismay as the militia began to panic. The_ Jiral'han_ were amongst them, sowing destruction wherever they went. It was what they were trained to do, and they performed their task with spectacular success. As half the choppers separated from the main assault, the militia became confused, unsure of who to focus on. That had to change.

"On me, on me!" Brambley shouted, rising to his feet.

Brambley led his fire team forward, jumping down into a forward trench. They narrowly avoided a bike which screamed by at blinding speed.

"Everyone, concentrate your firepower on the main pack. Let the other walls worry about the rest." He raised his battle rifle and snapped off a quick burst. In the distance, a rider cried out and fell to the dirt.

Under Brambley's leadership, the militia rallied, focusing their firepower. The _Jiral'han_, the pointed tip of the spear, was beginning to chip as the humans became organised once more. The outer trenches were fast becoming a graveyard for the remains of ruined choppers. Broken bike husks littered ground, idle engines ticking as their wheels spun slowly. Turrets peeking out over the edges of the Inner Trenches, the Scorpion tanks annihilated many of the bikes effortlessly.

Some of the riders, their vehicles coming apart at the rivets, flung themselves from their battered machines, leaping into the midst of the militia in a bloodthirsty rage. Alone and outnumbered, they were gunned down mercilessly.

Kekherus was furious. This wasn't going to plan, not at all. The _Jiral'han_ cannons had dented the Human gate, but the armour plating had been evidently reinforced. As much as it bent and warped under the furious tirade of thick shells, the metal stubbornly held firm. He raised his hammer, signalling a retreat. The remainder of the two hundred assaulting _Jiral'han_ - a pitiful forty or so by this point - formed up on him and began circling toward the eastern side of the city.

The Battle Net came alive again. Malwrekus was furious.

"Kekherus, you incompetant dog, where are you going?"

Kekherus took his time before answering, focusing on the battle at hand. He brought his hammer down on a fleeing human, grinning as the woman's skull came apart like wet cardboard.

"The Humans' defences are stronger than anticipated, War-Chieftain." he answered, "We have been unable to punch through their lines. More shelling is required!"

"Your excuses are unacceptable. Regroup and try again."

Snarling in frustration, Kekherus was too angry to reply. Instead, he opened a channel to his own forces.

"_Jiral'han_, rally on me! Another push is to be made!"

"But Pack-Leader, we-" whoever was attempting to protest vanished in a sudden blurt of static.

Despite everything, a thrill ran through the massive Brute. This was the first time the outcome of a battle had ever been in doubt. He banked off to the left, away from the citadel, his few remaining riders moving to regroup with the other two chopper packs. The sight of so many fallen comrades filled them all with righteous anger. Resolute, he roared a war-cry. His _Jiral'han_ echoed it, defiant and proud, as they swooped in for a second pass. The main Covenant assault force followed soon behind. His eyes narrowed in determination.

Nothing would survive a second charge from the _Jiral'han._

* * *

The choppers came in again, almost two hundred sets of 35mm cannons spitting angry death.

This time round, the militia were out of rockets. They had exhausted their supply in the first, furious engagement, and - though effective - it had left them vulnerable and exposed in the face of the Jiral'han's renewed thrust. Hundreds died, mashed against the desert floor. Kekherus uttered a bellyful chuckle as a screaming marine was impaled on the snarling tusks of his bike. The man died almost instantly, before slipping under the bikes' wheels with a messy crunch.

The bikes ripped through toward the main gate, passing over Brambley's head. They unleashed yet another salvo. Again the Northern Gate held, and a frustrated Kekherus had to lead his troops back around to begin a third attack wave. They circled around to the east, out of the lieutenant's sight.

Brambley had bigger things to worry about. The enemy's main force were right on top of them. Mortar fire from the Inner Trenches hammered out into the wall of advancing Jackals, gouging deep gaps into their regimented line. Hissing in disgust, the Jackals reformed into a tight shell of over-lapping shields, leaving the Jiralhanae behind them vulnerable to fire.

"All units, hit 'em while they're exposed!" Brambley battle-rifle began spitting rounds toward the enemy. Aside from his fire-team, very little fire shot out toward the advancing horde.

With a panicked start, Brambley realised his command squad had over-extended themselves in comparison to the other marine fire-teams. A salient had formed, as Loyalist-Covenant forces flooded into the surrounding trenches, killing and maiming the less disciplined militia with wild abandon.

The militia behind, eager to prove themselves, hurried forward to retake the lost ground. Many were killed as they made the desperate run forward. The marines, realising their CO was almost surrounded, rushed forward too, their superior weaponry hammering the Jiralhanae assaulters back out of the trenches as they moved to consolidate their lieutenant's position.

Brambley raised his battle-rifle, firing with careful precision at the oncoming enemy horde. The marines around him did likewise, their veteran experience coming to the fore as they unleashed a tightly focused blanket of suppressing fire. Scores of the enemy fell, but for every enemy slain, three more stepped forward to take their place.

The next few minutes became the stuff of barrack room legend. A single platoon, holed up in a trench against an oncoming horde of countless enemies, defying death and cheating fate. Brambley's men, thirty in total, became the focal point of the human resistance. Though there would be many heroes christened in the days to come, the opening engagement was undeniably their moment. That Bravo Platoon were to suffer so much over the coming week showed the Crassus campaign's brutal indifference to true heroism. As the distance began to close between the two armies, return fire snapped back into the human lines.

And humans began to die.

Private Jones slid back into the trench, missing an arm and most of his face. Corporal Timmons collapsed, thrashing about. A hissing plasma round had melted through his uniform and most of his shoulder, reducing both to a bubbling mess. Undaunted, Brambley continued to fire. Sergeant Lake slung a grenade into the middle of a clutch of advancing jackals. It skipped and rolled into the midst of the tortoise formation, rupturing it from within. Their cohesion momentarily disrupted, the surviving Jackals were swept down by the rattling machine gun nests.

They humans had fought courageously, but still it wasn't enough. The enemy advanced with psychotic determination, clambering over the heaped piles of their fallen comrades as they flung themselves at the human defences. Some of the fanatics fell to the ground, before rising to their feet once more, heedless of their missing limbs and weeping wounds. Brambley fired, reloaded, and fired again. Within a matter of moments, they were going to be overrun.

It was only a matter of time.

"Now, Brothers."

Vtan, the Sangheili and a wave of Separatist Unggoy climbed over the rim of the Inner Trenches, hurrying forward to reinforce the battered UNSC line. Having no long range weaponry of their own, they had weathered the storm of the bombardment within the safety of the sturdy fortifications. Now that the enemy were about to close upon the defence lines, it was time for them to join battle. To differentiate themselves from the enemy, the Separatist Grunts had daubed themselves head-to-toe in a sloppy coat of olive-green paint. Only the specialist Unggoy assigned to Rukth had retained their original colouration, as a mark of pride, rather than anything else. Only the best became Spec Ops. Methane supplies were dwindling, and many Unggoy stumbled groggily as they moved to follow their Sangheili masters. Their time was running out.

"Remember, hold fire until the enemy draws near." Rukth instructed, "Unggoy; prepare your grenades. Blow them to pieces!"

They settled into their positions, the colonists exchanging nervous looks as Vtan's forces crouched beside them. There was little time for speeches.

"The Humans have done well, but let us show them what it is to be a warrior!" The Shipmaster shouted, making eye-contact with as many of his troops as he could, "Focus on the Jiralhanae - kill them, and the assault dies with them! Brothers, the time has come to exact our revenge!"

He rose to his feet, igniting his energy sword,

"_For Sangheilios!_"

"_For Sangheilios_!" The Elites howled, beating their plasma rifles against their chests.

A blizzard of plasma grenades left their hands, hissing down upon the Jiralhanae vanguard. The Brutes howled as the grenades bonded with their flesh and exploded. Loyalist Unggoy were flicked into the air, their own payloads of grenades exploding in a blistering chain reaction as their methane tanks erupted. Casualties were atrocious. Hundreds were swept off their feet by scintillating sheets of Separatist plasma fire. The .50 calibres on the Curtain Wall and atop the Northern Gatehouse lit up, laying the enemy down in droves.

Still they charged.

The Loyalists washed over the trench lines like a breaker, smashing into the Sangheili and human defenders with a horrible crunch of scraping armour and breaking bones. All semblance of order was lost as it came down to savage hand to hand. The defenders fought tooth and nail to deny them - in some cases quite literally. Discarded helmets, mining picks, teeth; everything became a potential weapon as the two armies brawled in the outer trenches. It was a formless, graceless orgy of barbarity.

In his haste to overrun the enemy, Malwrekus had made a critical error. By hastily committing his forces in a headlong assault, his artillery ran the risk of hitting his own troops. The Jiralhanae manning the tanks ceased fire, for fear of hitting their allies. The human weapon batteries had no such compunctions, and continued to unleash upon the invaders relentlessly.

To counter this, the Wraiths moved forward, refocusing their fire on the Curtain Wall itself. This, in turn, left them open to attack from AT units stationed on the upper walls. Rockets tore down at the floating tanks, and a new artillery duel began in earnest.

Meanwhile, the Jiral'han, all but driven insane from their bloodying in the initial assault, ploughed straight through their own lines to get at the humans. They killed as many of their own number as they did the enemy.

And so the fierce melee continued unabated, the battle for the outer trenches descending into a feral struggle for dominance. Though the militia outnumbered the Jiralhanae, the Brutes were more than capable of tearing their enemies to pieces, being almost twice their size. Also, the Brutes and Grunts were trained warriors, in contrast to the militia, many of whom had never been in a single fight, much less an entire battle. Armed with little more than MA5Bs, mining picks and true courage, the militia were butchered piece-meal as loyalist forces swept over them. Plasma bolts seared bone and flesh into one. Screams rent the air.

Isolated out in the furthest point of the forward trench, Brambley was being rushed. A Brute scrambled up onto the rim of the bulwark, wielding a barbed Type 25 grenade launcher. Its helmet was missing, and blood leaked freely from several deep cuts across its body. It roared a challenge, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. _Ugly bastard_. Brambley expended the remainder of his clip into the beast's snarling face. It toppled back soundlessly into the seething mass of Grunts below. Brambley dropped the spent rifle, drawing his side-arm as he hurled his last grenade over the trench lip. A chorus of screams followed the dull _crump_.

Something leapt down into the trench behind him. He spun about.

It was the Elites. Plasma rifles became smouldering clubs as the Sangheili leapt up to meet the foe head on. What followed was a vicious symphony of snapping limbs and spraying blood. Their skill in battle was awe-inspiring. Where the Jiralhanae relied on brute force and raw strength, the Sangheili employed a lethal combination of quick reflexes and deadly precision, their martial prowess and elegance in battle unmatched.

Vtan swept his sword in a flourishing figure of eight pattern, dismantling a charging Jiralhanae above the knees. Beside him, the twin Mgalekgolo cut a swathe through the enemy, their assault cannons incinerating and their jagged metal shields swiping. Enemy plasma fire bounced harmlessly off their armoured hides like raindrops off a tank. The loyalist Grunts yelped at the sight of the two behemoths who had just joined the fray. With a wailing cry of terror, many broke and fled, colliding with the troops rushing forward behind them. They all fell in a tangled heap, moments before they too were eradicated by Separatist guns.

Up on the Northern Gate, Zerat moved his scope from target to target with machine-like efficiency, punching Jiralhanae officers off their feet with carefully placed shots to the head. UNSC marksmen did the same, and with comparable skill. That said, it was hard to miss; one barely had to aim to hit something.

Back down in the trenches, legends were born.

Rukth… Rukth was terrifying. It was often said that his skill in battle had long since earned him the right to ascend in rank, were it not for his own personal desire to remain on the front-lines. Indeed, Vtan himself had said - on more than one occasion - that Rukth should have made Shipmaster cycles ago. There, on that first day in the outer trenches, Rukth proved those words true. Finally unleashed after so many days hiding, the Spec Op ripped into the foe with barely contained delight. He was a true warrior, the very epitome of everything the Sangheili martial tradition aspired toward. His twin plasma rifles spat incandescent death as he jumped down over the bulwark, leaping down into the sea of enemies ahead.

With a disbelieving gasp, Brambley saw what Rukth was aiming for. An entire pack of Jiralhanae officers, five of them in total, formed the centre of the loyalist surge. The Brutes barked encouragement to the Grunts around them, kicking and shoving where necessary. The Spec Op clearly intended to take them all on single-handed.

At five to one, it was an even fight. Almost.

Brambley saw it all from his fox-hole. The black Elite didn't lose pace as he sent a volley of beams slicing into the first two Brutes. They were blown backward by the withering fusillade, power armour disintegrating into sparking fragments as they toppled. Their bodies had barely hit the ground before he was upon their allies. The Spec Op effortlessly strafed past a spray of return fire, activating his active camouflage. A translucent rumour, he surged forward, lost in the thick gun smoke. One of Jiralhanae cried out a warning just as Rukth's outline emerged within striking distance.

By then it was too late.

Rukth flowed like water as he ducked under the first Jiralhanae's clumsy swing, repaying the Brute in kind with a trio of rapid-fire blows. As the warrior stumbled back, its face a bloody ruin, Rukth swooped in between the three of them. His limps became a whirling blur. He timed every strike, calculated every step with perfect precision - his every move the next lethal sequence in an elaborately choreographed dance of death. The overheating plasma rifles broke bone and scalded flesh wherever they struck. The last remaining Jiralhanae fell to his knees, his ankle shattered inwards by a stomping hoof. For the finishing touch, Rukth brought the two plasma rifles down around its head like two smoking cymbals, crushing his opponent's skull between them. The Spec Op de-activated his camouflage and surveyed the devastation. Five broken bodies lay twisted at his feet. Rukth threw back his head, and howled in triumph.

"Behind you Brother!" Vtan cried out.

The Spec Op threw himself flat. Kekherus' Gravity Hammer whistled through the air where his head had been heartbeats ago. The Chieftain's mighty bike swung about, sending Unggoy on both sides scurrying for cover. Engine revving, Kekherus roared out a challenge, his hammer pointed straight at the Spec Op commander. Rukth tilted his head toward the Alpha Jiralhanae defiantly, mandibles flaring. Steam hissed from the flues on the back of his plasma rifles, and Brambley could only look on in disbelief as the Spec Op tossed the still-cooling weapons aside, planting his hooves firmly on the sandy floor. He was unarmed.

Sinking low into a combat crouch, Rukth raised held his left hand, and beckoned Kekherus onward with a single crooked finger.

The Chieftain gunned his engine and charged. As the adrenaline coursed through Rukth's system, the entire battle slowed to a crawl. It was as though the entire universe had been recorded, and then played back at half-speed. In the distance, plasma shells and tracer fire floated toward their targets with graceful deliberation. The bike inched forward, wheels churning up the ground beneath it. Its hungry tusks glinting in the sunlight. Rukth didn't budge. The massive front wheels juddered across the ruined battlefield, drifting ever closer. Kekherus cocked back the Gravity Hammer, ready to bring it down upon his opponent with murderous relish.

It was over in an instant.

As the bike swept toward him, Rukth stepped smoothly to one side, gripped one of the extending antlers and swung himself toward Chieftain. His left hoof smashed into the Chieftain's descending elbow with bone-splintering force. The Gravity Hammer tumbled from Kekherus' grip. Rukth's momentum carried him forward. He slid around behind his opponent. His hands snaked around toward either side of the Chieftain's neck. Gripping Kekherus' head-crest tightly, Rukth roared, then gave a single gut-wrenching twist.

The Alpha's neck snapped with a sickening crack.

The Loyalists broke and fled. As Rukth let go and tumbled down into a roll, the Chieftain's bike slammed into a ditch, its antlers pinning it deep into the soil. Kekherus' body slumped forward, his neck resting lolling about at an angle that was not survivable. As Rukth went to get to his feet, a shadow fell across him.

It was Vtan. The Shipmaster had taken up his friend's weapons, and was using them to devastating effect on the fleeing enemy. His own time as a field commander was flooding back to him, and he relished the nostalgia as his fingers tightened on the triggers. It felt good to be leading troops in battle once more.

"Back to the trench line, Brother!" Vtan shouted, "Or perhaps you intend to follow them back to their ship?"

Rukth, the adrenaline having faded from his system, simply nodded, scrambling back up the hill to the safety of the trenches. Vtan followed soon after, firing all the while.

"My compliments to your troops, Human." Rukth told Brambley as they crouched down behind a line of sand-bags, "You showed remarkable discipline in the face of the Jiralhanae assault."

Brambley, still stunned from witnessing Rukth's charge, managed a modest shrug.

"Just doing my job." he replied, scooping his BR-55 off the ground. He turned his attention back to marshalling the defenders into their positions.

The Jiralhanae spear-tip had been shattered. Their momentum lost, the attack had floundered against the rock of the human defences. The survivors had little choice but to flee back toward the safety of the Unquestionable Truth, which strode closer and closer toward the city. Mortar fire from the human defence lines hounded the routed loyalists every step of the way.

Vtan left Rukth in charge of the front lines, retreating with his Mgalekgolo bodyguard to the comparative safety of the Curtain Wall. He had insisted on blooding himself alongside his brethren, but Perry had stressed the need for him to exercise caution. If he fell, the Sangheili morale would crumble in the blink of an eye. And so, reluctantly, he withdrew, returning to the command centre where his tactical insight and extensive experience in Covenant warfare might best be employed.

Rukth spread his forces evenly across the entire battle-front, each Sangheili taking with them a clutch of Unggoy. The Separatist Grunts took advantage of the lull in the battle to siphon methane from their fallen Loyalist counterparts. Resources were low, and their heavy methane tanks had been pushed to the limit over the previous few days. Renewed and refreshed, their morale soared.

The militia also took the time to regroup. Munitions for the support weapons were brought forward, as fresh crews rotated in to replace the fallen. Within ten minutes, they had consolidated their former positions, reinforcements moving up from the Inner Trenches. The dead were left where they fell. There was no time for anything else. They had barely gotten themselves into position when a new threat entered the battle, this time from above.

"Banshees! Incoming from on high!" That was Zuka, who was displeased to be on the receiving end of an aerial attack for a change. The Elites ducked as a sonic boom screamed overhead. Weapon emplacements across the entire city blazed to lift, hosing the air with tracer fire.

Shrieking like the Celtic phantoms of old, the Banshees swooped in and attacked.

* * *

Marikos took cover in a trench beside two flustered militia support gunners, gnashing his mandibles in frustration. The Banshees were flitting about in the sky overhead, spitting plasma fire and vomiting fuel rod missiles. The militia panicked as they struggled to bring the gun, a bipod mounted AIE-486 chain gun, to bear. Patience expended, Marikos lost his temper entirely.

"Damn you, Humans, strike the foe from the skies!" the Outcast berated them with a shaking fist, "Lest we all die an honourless death while you fluster about like incompetent Unggoy at the teat!"

"The weapon mount doesn't aim high enough!" one of the colonists protested hotly, as he demonstrated the weapon's limitations, "If you've got a better suggestion, then I'm all ears!"

"Stand aside."

Marikos rose to his feet, pushing the colonists roughly aside. The Outcast gripped the heavy chain gun by the top of its casing, testing its weight. His strength should be sufficient. With a roar he tore the weapon free of its hinges, swinging it to bear and unleashing a salvo of rattling death toward the sky above. A Banshee was ripped from the air, trailing smoke, where it crashed down somewhere within Horizon's walls.

"Holy shit." one of the colonists breathed.

"That was fucking awesome." the other agreed.

Marikos grinned at them, sharing their elation.

"It seems you have found me a weapon I approve of!" He looked down at the two colonists, silhouetted against the carnage beyond, "Come, Humans, bring the ammunition, we have much work to do!"

And so the three of them set off, the two militia struggling under the jangling weight of the massive ammunition canisters. Marikos, gleeful at the prospect of his newfound toy, charged forward toward the front lines, eager for the hunt.

* * *

Emboldened by the arrival of air support, the invaders began a new assault with renewed vigour. Twice more they charged, and twice more they were repulsed, breaking before they even reached the forward trenches. The militia now fully understood the implications of what would happen should the Jiralhanae be allowed to close the gap, and renewed their determination accordingly.

On and on the slaughter continued.

On the command deck of the_ Unquestionable Truth_, Malwrekus was livid. Losing the _Jiral'han _Chieftain had been a disastrous set-back. His spear-tip broken, the attack had lost its steam, something which was critical to his plan's success. That his air forces had failed to arrive at the beginning of the battle - at a time when they were sorely needed - spoke volumes about the fractured nature of the Jiralhanae war-machine on Crassus.

By Jiralhanae standards, Malwrekus was a gifted tactician and a skilled warrior, but in many ways a poor leader. In theory, his plan had been extremely astute, certainly, but receiving the proper coordination (and indeed cooperation) necessary to carry it out successfully had proven impossible. Twenty minutes too late, their air support had only begun to arrive.

That he had been a victim of another Jiralhanae's ambitions would only become apparent later.

The result was this debacle. The field was thick with the ruined bodies of his own troops. Even now, the humans continued to shell them, and many Jiralhanae, their spirit broken, fled for the Badlands, never to return. Most of his Wraith tanks had been destroyed as they advanced forward, their smouldering wreckage an exclamation mark to all the butchery that had come before it.

As the Scarab reached the frontlines, the War-Chieftain's mind became filled with what-ifs.

Had the Banshees arrived ten minutes earlier, the _Jiral'han_ would have undoubtedly been successful. Had he been more patient, and allowed the Wraiths to shell for longer, then surely the Curtain Wall's defences would not have been so mercilessly cruel to his own assaulting troops. Malwrekus snarled, casting the torturous questions from his mind. The time for debating things was finished.

Malwrekus, nodded toward the Scarab's operators, "Take us into battle. We can turn this. We _will_ turn this."

He was lying, of course. He alone knew that. Unable to live with the shame of his defeat at the hands of the humans, the War-Chieftain would attain what every true Jiralhanae dreamed of.

An honourable death.

Stalking forward, the Scarab entered the fray, its turrets destroying everything in its path.

* * *

"Walker! Walker inbound!"

The _Unquestionable Truth_ blotted out the sun as it waded deep into the human lines.

Hundreds of RPGs exploded against its armour, most of them rebounding off its surface or detonating with little more than a slight dent in the gleaming purple hull. The militia rockets, while effective against lighter vehicles such as the Jiral'han assault bikes, did little to slow the Scarab. Its massive feet slammed down on the ground as it stepped over the trenches like mere cracks in a sidewalk, blithely ignoring the swarming ants beneath it.

Its firepower was devastating. The vehicle's primary laser cannon, which was formed the beetle-like "head" of the massive walking tank, emitted a keening whine as it powered up. It fired. A solid stream of green energy gouged a hole clean through the Northern Gate. The rending gap was large enough to fly a Pelican through. On its back, at the "tail" section of the scorpion, its heavy anti-air turret juddered as it sprayed out plasma bolts.

The remaining Jiralhanae, those who had not fled, rallied beneath the massive walker's feet, and mounted a final all-out assault. The defenders turned their attention toward repelling the enemy infantry, who swarmed in en-masse, trying to take advantage of the confusion. The militia despaired as these last few fanatics shrugged off all but the most lethal wounds, and would have broken were it not for Brambley's steady voice encouraging them all to hold the line.

On the walkers' top deck, the elite_ Jiral'ja_ crouched down and sniped down at the defenders with their carbines. True to their name, nearly all of the shots hit home. An Unngoy manning the dorsal turret sprayed down into the militia lines, cackling maniacally as colonists jerked and danced as they were mowed down.

"All forces, assault the main gate!" Malwrekus cried, "_Jiral'ja_, seize the objective, I want that position taken!"

"Your will be done, War-Chieftain," replied Captain Grizulk, who hurried up to the fore-deck. Sensing his intent, the thirty shock-troops cycled their jump-packs to standby mode. Activation runes glowed a deep purple on the chest-plates of their polished cobalt power armour. Primed and ready to go, Grizulk jostled his way through toward the front of the pack.

"Engage!"

The _Jiral'ja_ rocketed up into the sky, hurtling over the Curtain Wall and landing right on top of the defenders. Unlike the Jiralhanae storming the trenches on the ground, these were no inflamed fanatics, chosen out of an eagerness to prove themselves in the eyes of their superiors. No, the_ Jiral'ja_ were a tightly-disciplined corps of elite shock troops: focused, coordinated and deadly. They had little to prove to anyone.

After all, their reputation spoke for itself.

They moved as one, the point Jiralhanae lying prone on the steel deck as the other Brutes dropped to one knee behind them, forming regimented firing lines. Green tracer fire chopped into the militia, smashing some of the colonists clean off the walls, where they fell shrieking to their deaths far below. Grenades were flung with uncanny precision. Colonists managed a strangled shriek as the spiked barbs latching deep into their flesh. Within a space of five minutes, large sections of the Northern Gatehouse had fallen to the _Jiral'ja_.

Charlie platoon, who had stationed themselves in firing positions all across the Northern Gate, moved to counter-assault. Their CO, Lieutenant Lewis, led his men in from the front, a slew of fragmentation grenades flying into the chambers of the gate-house which had been overrun by the Jiralhanae elite. It was a bitter, intense struggle, which was fought room to room and hand to hand. Several times the marines found themselves having to withdraw, such was the ferocity of the _Jiral'ja's_ suppressive fire. Steel chippings and scabs of metal flew through the air as carbines dug into the walls.

The _Unquestionable Truth_ didn't stop as it reached the Northern Gate. Grizulk's shock troops flung themselves to the ground, knowing full well what the War-Chieftain was planning. There was a resounding screech as its spindly feet cleaved through the armour plating, peeling it aside like the skin of a fruit. The Northern Gate collapsed inward, torn through the middle. A peeling screech of rending metal tore through the air as it fell.

Malwrekus threw back his head and laughed. He had finally breached the city walls!

He was still laughing when Lieutenant Commander Henry Song, finally having a clear shot with his artillery battery, lowered the three fully-lowered howitzers to their lowest trajectory. The range between the rail link and the ruins of the main gate was a mere 100 metres, almost point blank in artillery terms. Song smiled.

"Fire."

The long barrelled cannons thumped. The _Unquestionable Truth's_ head came apart in a geyser of fire. Secondary explosions tore through the centre of the giant walker as it burned out from within. As it toppled sideways, the Scarab took a large tract of the Northern wall with it, ripping a fifty foot gap in the massive perimeter wall as it slumped down gracelessly onto its belly. Hundreds of militia died as they were hurled eighty feet to the ground below, crushed by an avalanche of descending rubble.

In the watch tower on the remaining side of the Northern Gate. Grizulk's_ Jiral'ja_ knew they were doomed. Defiant to the end, they held onto the Northern Gatehouse for a full forty minutes, before finally being dislodged and subsequently overrun by a combined force of Charlie Platoon, colonial militia, and a Sangheili sniper by the name of Zerat. Not one of the _Jiral'ja_ allowed themselves to be taken alive.

And so, a ferocious six hours after its beginning, the Battle of the Northern Gate had come to an end.

* * *

As the rubble was cleared and the dead buried, a number of developments had occurred in the aftermath of the UNSC/Separatist victory.

Consternation spread throughout the Covenant forces present on Crassus.

War-Chieftain Malwrekus' death was a heavy blow to the Jiralhanae war machine. Though lacking the patience required of a field commander, his intuitive grasp of tactics had made him an invaluable asset to High-Chieftain Torikus in the months leading up to the Great Schism. His death sent shockwaves through the Brute command structure. What had been assumed to be an easy victory had turned into a spectacular rout, culminating in the loss of an entire Scarab walker, one of the Jiralhanae's prized war machines.

Next time, they would not be so careless.

The non-appearance of the Yanme'e's, coupled with the delayed arrival of the Banshee air support, led many of the surviving Jiralhanae officers to suspect foul play on the part of one of the_ Implacable Duty's_ ranking officers. Though their concerns were well founded, and in hindsight proven to be true, they did not live long enough to voice them. Torikus had them all summarily executed the moment they had returned and reported the attack's failure. Their entrails were fed to the Kig-Yar, for having shown a fatal lack of zealousness on such an important holy day.

Because of this, the full extent of the plot against Malwrekus, and indeed many of the other senior Chieftains aboard the Implacable Duty, did not become apparent until a later stage in the conflict.

The surviving Unggoy, however, were spared as they returned to the base, their methane tanks all but elapsed from the strain of the momentous clash. With their return came a flood of rumours and whispers, a nightmarish story about The Black Sangheili. As the tales spread and grew, so too grew the nature of the story. A monstrous one-eyed Sangheili, who butchered Chieftains like they were so much sleeping Unggoy. Many laughed at first, but soon The Black Sangheili had become the stuff of nightmares for Unggoy and Jiralhanae alike. Many boasted that they would be the one to slay this Demon, but would oftentimes follow it up with a nervous chuckle and a look over their shoulder when their audience had departed.

Relgar, High-Captain of the Jiral'ja, listened to these stories with great interest. He kept quiet as he did so, his head bowed, but his eyes betrayed a quiet thirst between the narrow slit of his golden visor.

_At last_, he thought, _a decent challenge._

* * *

Zukav 'Ornon hurried across the hardpan, a trio of ponderous Huragok floating after him.

"This way!" he exclaimed urgently, leading them onward. "Make haste!"

Marikos had said that a Banshee had fallen into the Human Citadel. He had been right. The ship's wing had been heavily chewed by automatic fire, and its starboard gravity-pod had failed, but other than that, the craft looked relatively intact.

He opened the ship's hatch with a hiss of hydraulics. A single round had torn through into the Jiralhanae pilot's head, bursting it like a melon across the control panel. The crimson Elite didn't care, he was no stranger to blood. He dragged the body out with a dismissive tug. He turned to the Huragok.

"Well, what are you waiting for? This vessel shall not repair itself!"

* * *

Work crews laboured through the night. Four hours after the battle, they were still pulling bodies from the rubble. The damage done to the Northern Wall had been considerable, and much of it was - much to Abelev's disquiet - irreparable. A volunteer force of experienced militia personnel were assigned to defend the yawning gap created by the ruined skeleton of the _Unquestionable Truth_. The Scarab itself had proven too big to move, and was simply left to rust where it lay. To this day, passing tourists can still find wreckage of Jiralhanae walkers scattered throughout the ruins of the once-proud colony.

Casualties on both sides had been heavy. While the Jiralhanae's first wave had been annihilated to a man, the militia had also taken a heavy toll; ten thousand of Horizon's citizens had given their lives in the outer trenches. It took a full day to commit them to rest, the bodies being buried in a mass grave east of the city. In the wake of the battle, a new precedent was set by Second Lieutenant Joseph Brambley, who dictated that the outer-trenches would be used as temporary defensive positions only, which would allow the colonists to pull back to the comparative safety of the inner trench line without having to go toe to toe with the Jiralhanae invaders.

His word carried weight in light of his masterful defence of the Northern Line, and so the tactic became known as the Brambley Doctrine. It would save countless lives in the week ahead.

Over the next few days, their shoulders heavy with the burden of the task ahead, Horizon's defenders prepared themselves for the next battle. Faced with a larger enemy force and a gaping hole in their weakened northern defences, Major Abelev was left anticipating a dark and uncertain future.

That is, if there was to be a future at all.


	22. Meetings, Malcontents and Machinations

_"Did we know of the enemy's strength at the time? Of the numbers they would bring, and the ferocity they would unleash? Yes to all! And said we, 'Let them come!', for we are Sangheili; and shall deny our enemies with every drawn breath."_

- Major Domo Daulo Jakar, "Accounts of the Crassus Campaign - A Collection."

* * *

The bridge of the_ Implacable Duty _was silent, but for the nervous breathing of three of the souls present. The ships systems thrummed gently in the background, the occasional bleeping of the sensor array startlingly loud in the hushed quiet. Even the lights had been dimmed to their lowest setting. The deck had been cleared of all non-essential personnel, in order to soothe the High-Chieftain's mood. The alternative was to invite a bloodbath.

The second Alpha Council differed from the previous meeting in a number of key ways. For one, it was half the size. Shipmaster Torikus paced before his three surviving Chieftain's, his knuckles dragging against the deck. His gait was a loping hunch, much like that of a gorilla, and it betrayed his barely contained primal rage. His voice, however, was unusually calm, restrained even. This was Torikus at his most deadly: not as a mindless berserker, but as a calculating murderer.

"My warriors, we have underestimated our prey. Though we labelled the Human enclave a Citadel, we did not treat it as such." Torikus swept a hand toward the isometric display of the previous rout, which looped continually on the main view screen. "See how our overconfidence has been rewarded."

"Fifteen thousand troops lost, and an entire Scarab to boot. And what have we gained? A mere dent in their defences, where an entire city should have fallen. Clearly the Gods hold us in contempt for showing such complacence. The Sangheili should have been cut down long ago - this latest development only adds a greater sting to the shame of our negligence." He thumped his palm with his fist. "I shall tolerate it no more. Once more, I seek your counsel."

Chieftains Ragarkus and Paurikus - both mere infantry commanders - remained silent. It was Herikus, the remaining Chieftain of the _Jiral'han_, who stepped forward and spoke. Like his deceased counterpart, Herikus wielded a Gravity Hammer, a mark of high office. He chose his words carefully.

"High-Chieftain, if the proper coordination is provided, perhaps the plan put forth by War-Chieftain Malwrekus possesses some merit. If my-"

"Some _merit_? _Some merit_?" Torikus spat, back-handing the smaller Chieftain across the face, "Did you not hear what I said? Fifteen _thousand_ warriors lost, with _no_ discernible gain, and still you deem that strategy to possess '_some merit_'? Suggest that again, whelp, and I shall staple your skull to the prow of my ship!"

"And you," Torikus wheeled about toward the other two Chieftains, his temper spiking, "What say you? Or are you both incapable of speaking, let alone command?"

"Lord-Chieftain…" Ragarkus' voice was deep and ponderous as he spoke, "Though I understand your outrage, in light of the heretics' blasphemous defiance on our day of days, Chieftain Herikus' suggestion is not without certain wisdom."

"Oh?" The Shipmaster purred dangerously, "And what certain wisdom would that be, Ragarkus?"

"I do not profess to be a strategist- such a role is befitting of the Hierarchs, and the Hierarchs alone. But Malwrekus' plan has opened a chink in their armour, one my warriors could easily exploit and breach. A second wave is all that is needed, and could achieve victory with minimal waste."

"And you, Paurikus, you agree with this?"

"I do, High-Chieftain." Paurikus bowed.

Torikus threw back his head and barked a short laugh. All three lesser Chieftain's exchanged a nervous look. That was usually a bad sign. A fatal sign, usually followed by the thump of a Gravity Hammer.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or have I just seen a semblance of unity amongst my Alphas?" Torikus chuckled again, then shook his head. "How very amusing. No, the time for subtlety is past. Our purpose is clear: redemption, borne of cleansing fire and swift retribution. There shall be no second wave, no third wave."

"Forgive me, High-Chieftain, but I do not understand…" Chieftain Paurikus said, brow knitted.

"Mobilise _everything_. Surround their citadel, hammer their defences; I want every single warrior we have to march upon the humans. Leave nothing but ashes: the Gods demand it. You have seven days to accomplish this task."

Torikus' eyes shone with ravenous bloodlust in the dim gloom of the bridge.

"Crush them all, no matter the cost."

* * *

Deep within the bowels of the Jiralhanae carrier, Parakh paced to and fro, wringing his hands together nervously. His coat was a mangy brown, and lacked the proud sheen of a true warrior. A slight being, almost scrawny and hunched by Jiralhanae standards, he was something of an oddity amongst the bridge crew. Were it not for his skill as a communications officer, he would have been weeded out and killed long ago. Torikus himself had favoured Parakh precisely for that same reason: he had talent, but was also unlikely to prove rebellious in the future - a constant fear of every Jiralhanae officer.

Oh how wrong Torikus had been.

The short Jiralhanae was down on one of the now-abandoned gunnery decks. Plasma fire from the collision with the Sangheili vessel overloaded the ship's over-heated turrets, rendering much of the ship's weapon systems useless and inoperable. The corridors themselves had been gutted, the purple walls having been twisted into a corroded black. Even now - a full four days after the fact - the stench of burning hair and charred meat hung thick in the air, making his nostrils wrinkle in disgust. Parakh was an astute fellow, and had taken the precaution of diverting the clean-up teams away from this section of the vessel, so that his meeting would go undisturbed. And, more importantly, undiscovered.

Even so, _where was he? _He was supposed to be here.

"Pah, by the Hierarchs, this was a mistake…" Parakh murmured nervously. He did not like taking risks, and this gamble certainly counted as a potentially fatal one. In response to his mumbling, a voice growled out from the shadows, making him cry out in surprise.

"Right here."

Bralterakus stepped out into the erratic light thrown forth by the flickering deck lights. The polar opposite of Parakh, the weapons officer was broad and well made, his brown coat tinged with the promise of a full silver-coat. While not as toweringly massive as the High-Chieftain or any of the Alpha Council, Bralterakus was still prominent amongst the pack. His sheer size attested to his dominance. If he survived the coming weeks, he would prove to be a mighty Jiralhanae altogether. He was not a simple Brute, however. Quite the opposite, he was intelligent, ruthless and cunning. Like many of his species, he was not without ambition.

After all, this scheme had been entirely his idea.

"You're late," Parakh grumbled baldly, "You were supposed to be here ages ago."

"Stop snivelling, you gutless cur." Bralterakus scowled, "And for the Hierarch's sake, _keep your voice down_. If the High-Chieftain gets wind of what we're up to, he'll have more than our hides. I had to meet with some of the Huragok before I came down here" Sarcasm dripped from his voice, "No doubt even our esteemed communications officer understands the need for an alibi."

"Of course. I am not a fool." retorted Parakh, nettled.

"Sometimes I wonder." Bralterakus' eyes narrowed, "Now, the message to the Yanme'e swarm, did it arouse any suspicion?"

"None." Parakh shook his head adamantly, "The High-Chieftain slew any of the surviving officers before they got a chance to voice their complaints."

"As anticipated. Good; then our plan is in motion. Destroying Malwrekus was only the beginning. The High-Chieftain himself is the only remaining obstacle. Torikus knows full well that he cannot return to the Fleet without some trophy. To do otherwise would mark him as an incompetent, worthy only of swift execution. No doubt he's going to lead the attack himself, when the time comes. That's when we strike."

"Are you sure we're going to get away with this?" Parakh asked. "What if he finds out?"

Bralterakus simply bared his fangs in a feral grin.

"Then both our hides are forfeit, and it matters little. Now listen, fool. We have much to discuss…"

And so, deep in the belly of the damaged carrier's gun-decks, Bralterakus hatched the second part of his plan.

* * *

Down on the planet's surfaces, bathed in the amber glow of the dusk's fading light, Sergeant Murphy climbed down the creaking wooden ladder into the trench Major Grier was manning. Grier was the commanding officer of the Western Defences, and one of the ranking militia officers on the planet. A veteran of the later Insurrectionist wars, his skin was a leathery mass of scar tissue and sunburn; his perpetual squint made his features seem reminiscent of a crumpled towel. Grier was a gruff sort, a veteran in every sense of the word, and Murphy got on with him like a house on fire.

Right now, Grier was eyeing one of the Elites, who was stationed at the far end of the trench section, his arms folded across his chest. The Elite, clad in the blue armour of a junior warrior, was busy barking instructions to the clutch of Grunts under his command. The diminutive aliens chattered to themselves as they pored over the mechanics of one of the gun emplacements, clumsily trying to understand its workings. With limited success. One of the Grunts squealed as the machine gun felt free of its bipod with a clatter, eliciting a chastising roar from the exasperated Sangheili. Grier gave them all a withering look.

"Something bothering you, Major?" Murphy asked, hopping down to the ground.

"You can tell, huh?" Grier asked, raising an eyebrow.

"With respect, Sir, You look like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle."

Grier laughed darkly, then shook his head.

"Just seems strange, Sergeant. Thirty years of war, then this. Never saw myself sharing a foxhole with a squid-head. Doesn't seem right."

"Bramb tends to think otherwise, Sir," the commando jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "Shite they took on the northern lines was pretty heavy. The LT says it was the Elites that held things together."

"Don't I know it. Believe me, it's only Lieutenant Brambley's opinion that's keeping me from reaching for my MA5 every two minutes." Grier turned his squint toward Murphy, "You seem pretty happy about all of this; I wouldn't have thought a UNSC trooper would be too comfortable with it either."

"You know me, I get paid to look happy." Murphy's voice grew serious, "But yeah, I wouldn't say 'comfortable' is the most accurate word - believe you me; me and the lads have clocked up our share of dead squids in our time. But times change, and the circumstances change with 'em; part of being ODST is adapting to those changes."

"Adapt or die, basically?"

"Adapt or die." Murphy nodded solemnly, "Next few days, all sorts of hell is going to be pouring over these lines. If a squid-head wants to stand with us when it hits, then by all means let 'em."

Murphy looked over toward the Western Wastes. The horizon brimmed with the promise of another sand-storm. His visor was un-polarised for a change, and his face was grimly set as he surveyed the endless desert.

"Christ knows we're going to need all the help we can get."

* * *

In the command centre, Vtan peered at the holographic map display, studying it intently . Horizon's layout was typical of the smaller Human Colonies: sparsely decorated and coldly utilitarian. Horizon bore its "guts on the outside", as Abelev had so colourfully put it.

At the heart of the city lay the star-port, the city's lifeline to the outside galaxy, and the rest of the city grew up around it accordingly. South of the open landing field were the main mining facilities, beneath which most of the civilian populace had taken shelter. To the north and east, the labyrinthine refineries spread out like a smoke-belching cancer, their high flues, spindly wind turbines and thick steam vents rising up from the latticework of gantries, cat-walks and freight elevators. The west was almost entirely composed of rectangular habitation blocks, dull white-washed concrete structures which, though functional, did little to commend themselves to the passing visitor. As a warrior, the Shipmaster cared little for their aesthetic.

He was more focused on trying to defend it all.

The two leaders had spent long hours consulting the map, thrashing out ideas between them - almost quite literally in some cases. Some strategies, while seemingly straightforward from a human perspective, did not translate particularly well to the Sangheili code of honour, which often called for direct engagement rather than strategic withdrawal. Many times their differing tactical beliefs boiled over from tense sniping into full-on shouted arguments. Despite this, progress was being made. While Vtan was a peerless strategist and an inspiring leader, Abelev was a gifted commander in his own right, and his talent as a tactician quickly became evident to the Sangheili. Over the past week, the major had not been idle, taking the time to personally inspect every section of the map firsthand, eyeing every street corner and assessing every rooftop. No detail was spared.

The result was Tactical Response 23, or "TR-23", a definitive how-to instruction manual on how to maximise the full defensive potential of Horizon's narrow streets. Encoded copies of it would be sent to every field commander, who carried instructions to destroy it in the event of possible capture. As the battle unfolded, TR-23 would be continually revised and updated as circumstances permitted, as Vtan and Abelev's conversations yielded more solutions to suit the current situation.

One of those conversations was taking place now.

"Your plan is sound, Major Abelev," Vtan nodded, "However, it operates under the assumption that the Northern Gate remains intact. Regrettably, this is not the case."

Abelev nodded slowly, taking a sucking drag of his cigar. It was a burnt out stub by this point. A blanket of ash carpeted the rim of the holo-projector in front of him.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Shipmaster, you're right," Abelev said, "I've placed seventh and eight platoon - Militia, both of 'em - to plug the gap, but I'm not sure it's going to be enough."

"Who is the Human in charge there of your forces there?"

"Lieutenant Everson's currently the CO in that section," Abelev flushed at Vtan's look of blank confusion, then translated, "That's commanding officer, by the way."

Vtan blinked, then nodded slowly in understanding.

"Very well. It is a task worthy of the Special Operations team. A moment, please."

Vtan activated the Battle Net. "Rukth, can you hear me, Brother?"

"As clear as the waters of Yermo, Shipmaster." crackled the response.

"The ruins of the Northern Gate. A Lieutenant Everson is in charge of the defences there, but the major and I fear that the Jiralhanae's main attack shall focus there. Your warriors are to guide them through the coming storm."

"Your will be done, Shipmaster. By the blood of our forefathers, it shall not fall while we yet live."

Vtan looked back up toward Abelev.

"There, it is done."

"These Special Operations boys, they as good as I've heard?" Abelev asked.

"They are the sharpest blade at my disposal."

"Good. 'Cause I've got a nasty feeling, whatever's going to happen…" Abelev tapped the display, which frazzled as his finger swept through the wire-frame mesh, "…that gate's gonna be the focal point. We lose it… we lose the entire wall."

Vtan regarded his human counterpart frankly.

"Holding the Curtain Wall indefinitely may prove to be impossible, Major. The Jiralhanae's numbers are sure to dwarf those of the previous attack."

"Oh I know that, believe me. Song and I have planned a few delaying measures, but we're going to lose that wall eventually. I just don't want to give it up without a fight. After that, TR-23 comes into play."

"And after that?"

"Then?" Abelev gave a rueful smile and a dark chuckle, "Then it gets interesting."

* * *

If the first wave had been a breaker, then the second was a tidal wave.

In the night, the ground trembled with the dull stomping of marching feet. A full dozen Wraith gravity tanks slid forward, nestled under the striding claws of no less than three Scarab walkers. Above, Phantoms glided through the night, their holds brimming with buzzing Yname'e swarms. The entire Jiralhanae army, fifty thousand Brutes in total, had marched upon Horizon. A sea of Unngoy clattered around them, too many to count. High-pitched battle-hymns rent the air, punctuated by the ominous thunder of beating drums.

Filled with blood and fire and hate, the Covenant marched toward the Human Citadel; murderous and impatient.


	23. Day One: Skies Over Crassus

_"I suppose we called it Day One. There had been other battles before, small skirmishes and the like out east, as well as the fight for the Northern Gate. But this... with the scale of it... it really was Day One. _

_If we'd known we were in for another six like it, I think we'd have given up right there and then."_

_- Robert Musgrave, Local Chef turned Guerrilla Fighter, "The Warrior Cook: A First-hand Account of the Crassus Campaign." [2nd Edition]  
_

* * *

All across Horizon, sirens began to howl, the shrill keening sound drowning out the cacophony of a city readying itself for battle. Yellow emergency lights flashed and pulsed urgently. Administrator Jenning's voice wafted out from the public address system, urging people to remain calm, and to proceed to their assigned positions as quickly as possible. The Covenant had arrived.

Militia units scrambled into position, this time with a professionalism forged from the baptismal fire of the first battle. Orders were cried out, and troopers scurried to the forward positions, their boots slapping against the pavement as they streamed out of the city gates to man their stations. It was like a colony of orange-suited ants flood out from their hive. Many tugged hastily on the straps of their webbing as they scrambled to meet the coming foe. Sangheili also hurried to their positions, warbling out instructions to the Separatist Unngoy.

"Section leaders, report in." Abelev ordered, his voice sounding tinny through the com speakers.

"This is Northern Line, standing by." Brambley's voice crackled.

"Western Line, ready and able." Major Grier reported.

"Murphy here, Eastern Line is hot to trot and ready to kick some serious arse."

"Southern Line - all units reporting in." That was Lieutenant Lewis, "Status Green."

"All units, prepare to repel enemy invasion forces. I don't want a single one of those bastards getting through, am I clear?"

A chorus of affirmatives answered him.

Abelev turned back to the display, eyes narrowed.

"Looks like the Brutes are playing for keeps this time." he remarked to Vtan. The Shipmaster nodded grimly.

Truer words were never spoken. The enemy invasion force was gargantuan, and had fanned out around the city in a wide loop, like a python unspooling to constrict and consume its prey. Most of them were Unngoy, but it was plain to see that the Brutes themselves had arrived en masse. Estimating their numbers would had proven impossible at the time, but retrospective analysis from helmet cam optical footage placed the enemy infantry's number somewhere in the region of one hundred thousand - an entire army group. Even the _Jiral'ja_, the Jiralhanae elite, had deployed in battalion strength. Phantoms hung in the air above the horde like menacing balloons, their engines throbbing. The display told many things, and very little of it was good news. Most importantly, it told them one thing.

Horizon was surrounded.

* * *

Molikos and the other five Outcasts strode down into the shelter of the innermost Eastern Trench, their hoods draping their faces in shadow. The militia parted before them, as scared of them as they were the Covenant proper; To many of the colonists, there was scant difference between the two. Marikos was lagging behind, the weight of his rotary cannon slowing him down. His trusty militia ammo bearers staggered behind him, struggling with their panniers of ammunition.

"Keep pace, Humans!" Marikos tutted, "We have much work to do this day. Much work indeed!"

The handlers, two young miners by the name of Perkins and Wallace, simply puffed and nodded, moments away from collapsing under the weight of the ammo belts heaped over their shoulders. Molikos chuckled at the sight, then checked the safety on his own weapon, a militia-issue MA5B. Unlike their Separatist brethren, the Outcasts held no qualms about appropriating UNSC technology. They had already been Shamed once, and - free of the constraints of traditional warrior practices - had put their taint to good use, employing Human technologies to devastating effect. By the end of the conflict, many of them would adopt the BR-55 as their trademark weapon, in deference to the efforts of their allies on the Eastern Front - the ODST shock troopers.

The ammo counter read a crisp sixty. A full magazine. Good. Though crude, Molikos intended to put this primitive weapon to good use. Every single one of those shots would count.

In the blood of his enemies, Molikos would find his redemption.

At forty-four minutes past eleven, a mere three days after the Battle of the Northern Gate, the second battle began.

Though the Jiralhanae lacked finesse, grace and delicacy in their war-making, they were not stupid. Having learned the devastating capabilities of the Human artillery the hard way, the Jiralhanae took no chances. This time, there would be no careless charge. They had learned from their mistakes.

Instead, they chose to meet fire with fire. More specifically, plasma fire. Wraith tanks, five on each side of the city, lit the heavens with their burning payloads, unleashing a hellish wave of destruction upon the human lines. The sky was filled with howling Banshee attack fighters and shrieking Seraph bombers, the latter a barely discernible blur as they snapped by overhead at supersonic speed. Only the bombs they left in their wake confirmed their devastating presence. AA positions across the city opened up, chattering and rattling as tracers split the air.

For ninety relentless minutes, the sky fell with devastating lethality. Militia casualties were in the thousands. The first recorded Sangheili death also occurred during the bombardment. Uraik 'Paurom, a minor Elite tasked with defending one of the southern communications hubs, was caught in a trench-enveloped by the cannonade. He barely had time to howl out his outrage as a glistening comet of blue fire atomised him and his Unggoy in a single blinding flash.

The Human artillery positions responded in kind, the mighty howitzers juddering as they fired. Spent shell casings, easily the size of a man's torso, were hauled from the breach and flung aside onto the rail platform's deck, where they lay spinning and smoking on the sun-washed concrete. Civilian cleanup crews cleared them away and sent them back for recycling, risking life and limb as Banshees swooped over them, weapons blistering.

Many of the Human artillery sections were permanently silenced by the swarming aircraft, their munitions detonating in an apocalyptic chain reaction as the enemy missiles hit home. Commander Song ordered the rail systems to move after every salvo fired, anxious to keep some of the batteries in one piece.

If they were silenced, he didn't want to think of how much freedom the enemy would be given.

* * *

The _Ubiquitous Triumph_ was no ordinary Scarab. While the traditional Type 47 Walker was a towering presence on the battlefield, this one in particular was the High-Chieftain's personal flagship, and had been upgraded accordingly. Its size and scale truly reflected the nature of its master.

All manner of modifications had been made.

Where traditional Covenant super-heavies had two main offensive weapons; a rear-seated AA cannon and a forward-mounted energy projector, this vehicle was a monstrous three-headed hydra; larger, bulkier, and - true to Jiralhanae custom - entirely lacking in subtlety. It was as though they had taken the original Scarab, and exaggerated it in the most blunt way possible, crudely welding chrome plates onto each of the main sections. It lacked the elegant sloping grace of its smaller cousins, but the _Ubiquitous_ - the first recorded Type 48 Jiralhanae Walker in human history - made up for this in its awesome size and brute durability.

Right now, it languished at the rear of the Jiralhanae forces north of Horizon, content to observe for the present time. The other two Scarabs, traditional Type 47s, had triangulated themselves around the far points of the Human Citadel, awaiting his command. Occasionally, the plasma mortars lining the length of the Ubiquitous' spine would open up, vomiting forth blue trailing death toward the city in the distance.

"Enemy shell-fire has reduced in volume, High-Chieftain." The communications operator announced triumphantly. High-Chieftain Torikus, draped regally over the grav-throne within the heart of the customised Scarab, nodded slowly.

"Splendid. Send word to the Yanme'e - I want those Humans buried utterly. Make ready our unit commanders, I want a full assault spread, pressed on my signal."

"Your will be done, High-Chieftain."

Torikus eyed the collapsed Northern Gate, where the ruined hulk of the _Unquestionable Truth_ lay sprawled in the dust.

There.

That was where they would break through.

* * *

On the Northern Lines, Brambley had curled himself into a tight ball at the base of the forward trench, secretly praying to himself over and over. Twice, plasma orbs had bracketed the trench he was in, spraying his men with broiled muck. All around the city, the ground between the outer trenches had become ruptured and buckled, some of the trench lines vanishing altogether. In their stead were a series of deeply gouged craters, many of which would become new defensive emplacements in their own right. They too would become choked with the fallen dead in the days ahead.

The lieutenant couldn't hear a thing, the only sound a keen ringing, like somebody had detonated a flash bang inches from his head. He could faintly taste blood on his lips. With a start, he realised he'd bitten into his own tongue. Sergeant Lake was mouthing something. Brambley squinted and tried to focus. Nothing, just that goddamn ringing. Slowly, like a diver breaking the surface, the world of sound flooded back into existence.

"-said we need to pull back!" Lake was hoarse from repeating himself. Brambley spat on the ground, blinking the grit from his eyes.

"What?"

"I said, if they keep this up, we need to pull back!"

"Wait!" Private Gormley hissed. "Listen…"

"I can't hear anything…" Lake began, then gasped. It took Brambley a second to realise what it was too. He had gotten so used to the it, its absence almost seemed deafening.

The shelling had stopped.

Something new took its place. A buzzing sound, faint at first, then louder, more insistent. Soon, it rose to a braying hum, an almost constant sound. Phantom dropships drifted overhead, pouring forth thick black clouds. Only they weren't clouds at all.

Like a biblical plague of locusts, the Yanme'e swarms descended on the Northern Trenches, a curtain of snipping mandibles, droning wings and incandescent plasma fire. The militia, disorientated from the numbing effects of the savage artillery, shrieked as they were engulfed. Weapon emplacements barely managed to get off a spurt or two before they were choked by the thickly swarming insects. Brambley's men hit the dirt, laying on their backs and spraying upward in a desperate attempt to stave off the encroaching swarm. The sky itself had been blotted out, such was the density of the drone attack.

The sound. The sheer sound was maddening. It was so incessant, so intense; it felt as though Brambley's had been ensconced in the midst of a beehive with nothing but a stethoscope for company. For some, it proved to be too much; Private Gormley had dropped his weapon, and ripped his helmet from his head. His hands were clamped at the sides of his head, the knuckles white. The swarm plucked him into the air, where he disappeared in a swirl of green chitin and flashing wings. Brambley never saw what became of him.

Determined not to meet the same fate, Brambley screamed and continued to fire, the wall of insects coming closer and closer.

Further back in the Northern Lines, Rukth and his Spec Ops watched as the Outer Trenches were swamped. Having been a veteran of many battles in the past - oftentimes working in consort with the Yanme'e themselves - the black armoured Sangheili knew they were a diversionary tactic, nothing more. The real danger was the line of enemy infantry, advancing upon the human lines unchecked. If they were allowed to close the distance unfettered, this battle would be over before it even begun.

The Phantoms were the key. They drifted lazily over the Outer Trenches, unloading their humming cargo like crop-dusters spreading pesticide. The Drones gushed forth from the dropship's belly like irate bees from an apiary, firing and screeching and biting. Enough was enough.

"Target the Phantoms!" Rukth cried, pointing, "Blast them from the sky!"

The response was immediate. Missile batteries, Human and Separatist alike, lashed out as one, smashing into the Covenant aircraft with commendable accuracy. The missile crews were evidently getting the hang of their weapons. Phantoms plummeted to the ground, squishing dozens of the buggers underneath.

Given a moment's reprieve, Brambley's units vigorously regained their resolve, their machine guns chopping the insects from the sky. Dead Drones fell from the sky in droves. Inch by murderous inch, the swarm was beaten back. Soon, the ground was littered with the twitching burnt corpses of broken Yanme. The surviving insects shrieked and darted away into the distance.

Rukth nodded to himself in satisfaction.

"Sangheili, reinforce the Human line, re-establish tactical supremacy."

Minor Elites, their Separatist Unngoy wheezing on what little methane they had left, moved forward to take up defensive positions amongst the ash-strewn craters. Major Domos rallied their squads, ducking low in the soot as they awaited the enemy. Rukth led his Spec Ops in first hand, loping forward with determined strides. They had barely gotten into place when the Loyalist forces were within firing range. Plasma fire flickered back and forth, smashing friends and foes alike off their feet.

The Northern Defences had become a killing ground once more.

* * *

The _Jiral'han_ emerged from the Western Wastes, blood-thirsty and war-whooping.

Herikus grinned at the sound. His honour had been stung at Torikus' choosing of Kekherus over him for the initial assault. In hindsight, it was most fortuitous indeed. Not only would he prove the High Chieftain wrong for having doubted his abilities, he would reap much glory this day.

Spurning all pretences of subtlety, Herikus had outfitted a third of his Jiral'han with Type-52 Infantry Support Vehicles: sleek gravity-assisted sleds which resembled the front-heavy Choppers. These larger four-man vehicles, dubbed Prowlers by the UNSC forces, glided gracefully over the dunes toward the Western Lines. Out-fitted with fully automatic plasma repeater turrets, they were to prove devastating to the human defenders.

The Jiral'han sped forward in a broad line formation, two rumbling Choppers functioning as outriders to each assault sled. Human mortar fire exploded amongst them, throwing up explosions of dirt and stone. The _Jiral'han _sliced through the clouds of debris largely unscathed, only the occasional rider tumbling to the dirt. They knew what would happen were they to cluster together, and opened up their formation accordingly.

They couldn't be allowed to break through.

Major Grier stood on the command parapet of the Western Wall, an ocular field scope in his hands. He turned to his communications officer, who was crouched over the bulky com unit, the receiver handset pressed to his ear.

"Inform Major Abelev, Brute mobile assault units have been engaged on the Western Line." All around him, machine guns roared into life, the staccato popping sound echoing all around him.

" …We are repelling with earnest."

* * *

The Eastern and Southern approaches were met with a very different attack. There were no Yanme'e swarms, no fleets of _Jiral'han_ assaulters. Instead, they were met with a simple infantry advance, led by Chieftains Ragarkus and Paurikus respectively.

The Jiralhanae troopers hustled forward, sheltered behind a line of massed Kigyar and the bulk of the gliding Wraith tanks. The defenders inflicted tremendous casualties on the advancing Covenant host, making every step taken a costly one. The bombardment had taken its toll, however, and many of the militia units were scattered and frayed at best, their cohesion only returning when the Helljumpers, under Sergeant Murphy, began rallying them personally. His men dropped to a firing crouch in the outermost trench, battle rifles cocked, locked and ready to rock. Gunfire filled the air.

Only it wasn't theirs.

For one it was far too loud. Louder even than the bristling machine gun nests. Murphy's commandos flung themselves to the dirt as something darted overhead. The ODST leader looked up, and cackled.

There were four of them, hovering high in the sky like angels sent from God himself. AV-14 Attack Hornets, all humming rotors and blazing weapon pods. Hundreds of Jiralhanae exploded in pink mist as they were ruthlessly raked to the ground by the wasp-like ship's strafing assault cannons. Laser-guided rockets banged out toward the advancing Covenant tanks, blowing two of them to smithereens. Ragarkus' troops floundered, their charging advance halted dead in its tracks. The Jiralhanae dove for cover beneath the burning husks of what had been their armour support, praying to their Gods for salvation. All across the Eastern defences, the humans punched the air and cheered.

"This is Warmonger to Oscar One, looks like you could use a hand, Murph."

"About time you did something useful, Perry." Murphy grinned, before turning to the men around him

"Come on lads, let's give 'em a hand!"

With a resounding yell, Murphy's Militia rose up and attack, driving the enemy back into the desert.

Up in the sky, Perry wasn't feeling anywhere as confident. As the ranking flight officer on Crassus, he had acting command of Eagle Flight. Normally he would have been thrilled to be back in the seat of the AV-14, but a number of things were dampening his enthusiasm.

Fuel was one factor. Though Horizon's refineries had been pushed to breaking point over the past week, most of it had been channelled toward the construction teams and the front-lines, where its use would soon become apparent. What little had been routed to the Navy took time for the fuel to be shipped over to the starport. The _Anchises' _supplies having been ransacked by the colonists months ago, and the short of it was that each of the pilots only had a small measure of fuel to run on. With three flights of Hornets in the air - each consisting of four birds total - supplies had been stretched thin.

They had enough for forty minutes flight time, tops.

On a far more immediate note, the sky was black with bogies. Hostile Banshees howled towards them, spraying plasma fire. Where the Covenant ships relied on elegant speed and lighting strikes, the human VTOLs employed tight discipline and vector thrust to cover each other, deftly avoiding the incoming enemy fire. The four pilots selected for Eagle Flight were the best of the best, but even then, they were outnumbered by at least three to one. Perry wasn't a gambling man, but he knew the odds were stacked against them.

_Yeah, and? What else is new?_

An added concern was the human AA batteries themselves. The civilian crews were being supervised by Navy operators, true, but the nature of their weapons; massive flak cannons and automated turrets welded to the top of Horizon's rooftops, were primitive and out-dated. Cloudbursts of flak fire drifted through the air, occasionally shredding the hulls of the more careless Loyalist pilots. Eagle Flight had to be careful; Horizon's defences were as potentially lethal to them as they were to their enemies.

"Eagle Lead, this is Eagle Two, bandits at 3 o' clock." Strongarm's voice was rock steady as ever. "Recommend evasive action!"

Perry hauled the flight sticks to port, swinging his ship about on its axis. He barely slid to one side when the canopy was filled with the blinding strobe of hissing plasma fire. Perry jabbed the firing stud with his fingers. It was pure luck, more than anything else. The massive tracers reduced one of the passing Banshees to scrap-metal. The Covenant ship smeared itself against the Curtain Wall, erupting in a fiery explosion.

"Down goes another one!" Strongarm whooped, making a kill of her own.

"Here they come again…"Eagle Two warned, "Banshees, coming in low and fast."

Perry centred his Hornet on the next wave and re-sighted.

"Alright, Eagle Flight, the timer's ticking and it's not getting any slower. Form up on me and keep it tight; let's see if we can't free up these skies a little."

* * *

Molikos ejected the spent magazine, reaching for another one. Marikos was beside him, chain gun roaring. His ammo handlers cheered as he disintegrated yet another Banshee. Marikos stepped back down from the firing step, the rest of the targets beyond his effective range. He turned to his leader, mandibles flexing in a delighted grin.

"See how the Hierarch's forces scatter before us!" he beamed. Molikos simply shook his head, a note of resignation in his voice.

"The Human ships have earned us a moment's rest, but the Jiralhanae shall rally soon enough." Molikos raised his voice, to address the other five Outcasts, "Be ready, my Brothers, we are but young in deed this day."

"Hark! The enemy charge once more!" One of the Outcasts, Jurmai, shouted, before clambering up to the fire step and opening up with his assault rifle. Molikos shot Marikos a knowing look, before moving to join his comrades.

Marikos snarled, stepping up to the trench-lip, playing his chain gun back and forth. Smoke rose up in thick belts from the whirling barrel. Within minutes, the trench floor had been piled ankle-high with spent casings. They tinkled as they cascaded to the ground, white hot and steaming.

Perkins and Wallace kept their heads down, fingers jammed in their ears. They were going to need more ammo, they just knew it.

* * *

"Your air units have done well, Major," Vtan mused, gesturing toward the display. "See how the Jiralhanae's eastern attack has lost its momentum."

Abelev barely heard him. He was busy fixating on the opposite side of the city. Right now, the battle was hard to truly discern: they weren't winning, but they certainly weren't losing either. The Northern Lines had adopted the Brambley Doctrine in the nick of time, falling back to the Inner Trenches in order to avoid going toe to toe with the Covenant shock troops. The result was that the Covenant skirmishers had infiltrated the Outer Trenches, ducking into the shallow emplacements to seek refuge from the torrent of fire raining down from the Curtain Wall.

A bitter stalemate had begun, one that was to continue unabated for the next four days. Bunkered down within the network of interweaving trenches, the two armies sniped and chipped at each other to little effect. For the moment, the north would hold.

Out east, things were an entirely different state of affairs. Though they had resisted two attack passes by the _Jiral'han_, Grier's men had taken a pounding in return. Unwilling to concede any ground, the militia commander had stubbornly kept his men entrenched in the outer defences. They paid the price for his mistake. Several of the inexperienced conscript-militia units broke and fled anyway, all semblance of decorum lost. Most were cut down mercilessly as they broke cover. It was only the seasoned militia - in particular the dogged resistance offered by Grier's own command team - that was still holding things together.

Even then, it was only a matter of time.

Right now, Abelev was kicking himself pretty hard. Had he not been so lenient with the colonists desire to strip the _Anchises_, he could have brought a full squadron of Longsword bombers to the fight. With their 110mm rotary cannons and Scorpion missiles, they would have taken care of much of the Brute's assault force in relatively short order. Still, he had to work with what he had. Which meant Perry needed to get his ass over there ASAP.

He opened a channel on the naval tac-frequency.

"Eagle-Lead, this is Control, see if you can drop some fire on the Brute Prowlers coming in from the west."

"Orders received, Eagle Flight is inbound. Warmonger out."

The Shipmaster, not content to leave the western flank unaided by his own troops, activated the Battle Net once more.

"Brothers, the Western Line is ailing; multiple Jiralhanae assault craft are threatening to overwhelm the Outer Defences. Zerat, take some of the Unggoy weapons teams and see that their attack goes no further."

"Understood, Shipmaster. It shall be done."

* * *

Grier winced as a Prowler swept past the edge of the trench lip, its plasma cannon shuddering as it blew several of his command squad apart. Grier collapsed back from the top of the trench lip, which was now little more than a craggy ruin of chipped rock shards and crackling flames. His MA5B was dry, and he'd fallen back on his militia-issue side-arm, a snub-nosed holdout pistol. It barked angrily as he opened up on the passing Brute vehicles, who were marauding through the militia lines with gleeful abandon, sowing chaos wherever they went. The pistol did little but draw attention to him, and Grier wasn't entirely pleased with the reward for his bravery.

One of the Prowlers swung back toward him, turret cycling.

Several darts of light speared through the air, but none of them were directed at him. The Prowler slewed to a halt, its crew members slumped forward in their seats. Smoke rose from the their bodies, and they rested at an odd angles, their arms trailing and heads lolling. Each one of them had been drilled with precise shots to the head. A knot of Separatists rushed out from the Western Inner Trenches, their leader a hulking black Sangheili clutching an overheated beam rifle.

"It appears we are not too late, Major-Human." it said as it ducked down beside him, "Perhaps my warriors can make a difference."

"You're welcome to try." Grier shrugged. Though the Elite was impressive, the gaggle of diminutive Grunts it towed in its wake were not. That said, each one of them hefted a mighty fuel rod cannon, looted from the Battle of the Northern Gate like so much of the Separatist equipment. Regardless, Grier's opinion wasn't set to improve anytime soon.

His opinion was quickly proven wrong.

"Unggoy, prepare to fire!" Zerat barked.

"Yibyab kill!" one of them shrilled, trundling forward on its squat, trunk-like legs.

Another Grunt gurgled something similarly unintelligible, and raised the weapon into a firing stance. The pack of Grunts were nearly blown back into the trench as they unleashed a wall of green fire toward the charging Jiral'han, such was the recoil of their mighty weapons.

Prowlers and Choppers skidded desperately as they tried to avoid the radioactive green bolts of energy. Many were too slow, vanishing in rumbling fireballs as the Unggoy unloaded again and again. It was a scene of remarkable heroism, considering the sheer size difference between the monstrous Brute assaulters and the comparatively tiny Grunts.

Driven off for now, the _Jiral'han_ circled back away from the city, driving up a streaking plume of smoke behind them. The Grunts lowered their cannons, chittering to themselves happily.

"Well I'll be damned," Grier breathed.

For a moment it looked as though the Separatist Unggoy had succeeded in driving off the Jiral'han unscathed. Then, with a rasping gurgle, they began to keel over, one by one. Their methane tanks finally depleted, the hapless Grunts began the unenviable and involuntary task of choking to death. Zerat grimaced, and ordered his Elites to put the small creatures out of their misery. As the Elites silenced their agonised minions with compassionate plasma fire, Zerat shook his head, activating his communications link.

"Shipmaster, grave news. As you feared, the Unggoy air reserves are no more."

Hunkered down in one of the hotly contested Northern trenches, Rukth was faced with a similar sight. His Special Operations Unggoy, doggedly loyal to the end, used their last dwindling gas reserves to the fullest. There was a piercing cry as all six of them activated their full caches of plasma grenades, hurling themselves upon the Jiralhanae positions. The startled cries of the Brutes crouching in a nearby crater were savagely cut short by a massive detonation. Rukth's heart swelled with pride.

He had trained them well.

Vtan bowed his head in mournful respect. True, the Unggoy were the lowest of the low amongst the Covenant's Hierarchy, but they had fought on as valiantly as could be expected. An unusually kind commander by Sangheili standards, Vtan took no pleasure in learning of their deaths. Still, it had been anticipated. That they had lasted this long without proper methane re-supply had been a miracle unto itself.

"Bad news?" Abelev asked, not taking his eyes from the tactical projector.

"It seems my Unngoy have run out of time, Major Abelev." Vtan regarded the brawny major openly, "I have but fifty or so remaining warriors to command. What would you have us do?"

Abelev looked up, sensing his counterpart's intent.

"Nuh-uh, there's no way in hell you're going out there."

"Most of my warriors have just been felled in a single stroke. I see little I can accomplish here. My place is there, at my Brethren's side. I will not stand by while they die unaided."

"And you honestly think they're going to take orders from me?" Abelev's ham-like arms were folded across his chest, unimpressed, "Get it into your head, Shipmaster: we need to work together on this - you even said it yourself. Now come over here and help me figure out how we're going to drive off those goddamn Scarabs when they hit."

Vtan, seeing the sense in this, simply nodded, but there was no hiding the conflicted look in his eyes. He had built his reputation as a warrior who led from the front, and did not wish to see that reputation tarnished. Every fibre of his being urged him to charge out there now, and drive fear and steel into the hearts of his enemies. But to do so would be foolhardy, irresponsible beyond measure. As much as the Shipmaster resented it, Abelev was right. There would be a time to fight once more, but this was not it.

Still, that didn't stop his massive hand from unconsciously flexed around the moulded grip of his energy sword.

* * *

"I'm hit!" Eagle Four howled. Perry looked out to starboard, seeing the remains of one of his wingman hurtling downward, the canopy ablaze with spilt propellant. The com was still broadcasting as the flames reached the pilot. The man's tortured shrieks filled the airwaves, making sounds no human should ever make. Perry was almost thankful when the flaming comet finally slammed into sand dunes below.

There was only two of them left now, Eagle One and Eagle Three - the latter piloted by Elaina "Strongarm" Santos. Eagle Two had been splashed ten minutes back, his skull burst by "friendly" flak fire. Perry tried not to think about the same happening to him.

Evidently, the Brute pilots thought different. His warning indicator pinged, then bleated.

Perry swore, throwing his Hornet into a steep nose-dive. Scything plasma fire split the air where his ship had been moments ago. The Hornet was a wonderfully manoeuvrable craft, but it was sorely lacking in speed compared to a fixed-wing aircraft. The net result was that Perry spent most of his time throwing the VTOL into desperate skin-of-your-teeth spins to escape and evade the faster enemy aircraft. Perry knew there was only so long before they'd be faster than he was lucky. The key thing was to never give them the chance to get behind you.

If they did, well, then you went the way of Eagles Two and Four.

Still, they had their orders, and UNSC pilots never quit. Abelev wanted them run a strafing run west of the Curtain Wall, but Perry very much doubted they'd survive long enough to even make it that far. From what he could make out over the com, Umbra and Teal Flight weren't having much more luck; the air battle had been short and frantic; the high stakes game of evasion only putting further pressure on their dwindling fuel reserves.

He flicked the fuel gauge dial, an old habit from his days in flight school. It had been lurking in amber status since take-off, but it was now dipping dangerously into the red-zone. Enough for twenty minutes, tops.

He was still fretting over the fuel gauge when Eagle Three's voice yelled in his ear.

"Warmonger, on your six!"

Instinctively, Perry hauled on the control yoke once more. Strongarm's guns sprayed a return salvo, catching two of the Banshees in her sights. They came apart at the joints, in a glittering shower of metal shards and glinting hull plating. A third Loyalist craft skimmed by, skimming Eagle Three with a quick blurt of plasma, before Perry himself nailed him with a twinned pair of heat-seeking rockets. The bandit collapsed in a ball of fire.

"How you holding up, Strongarm?" Perry asked. "You green?"

There was a pause, Elaina's voice was unusually shaky. "Bastard clipped me... uh, there's a little tension in the pedals, but I'm okay."

"I want a no bullshit assessment, please; are you good to fly, Santos?"

"I… I think so."

A notoriously stubborn pilot, Perry knew her far too well. He craned his neck around, carrying out a visual inspection himself. Smoke was belching out from her starboard engine pod, and plasma fire had torn clean through several parts of the aircraft's hull.

"That's a negative, Strongarm, get back to base, that's an order. You're no good to anyone in that condition."

"Understood, Sir," the bitterness in her voice was evident as she peeled off for home, "Eagle Three, RTB."

Alone in a sky full of enemy aircraft, Perry flew on, his fuel counter ticking lower with each passing minute.

* * *

Torikus analysed the scene in front of him thoughtfully.

He saw now the problems Malwrekus had encountered. Though they had ravaged the enemy's western line, and pounded large sections of the Curtain Wall with their artillery, penetrating the tangled network of defences was proving far trickier than previously anticipated. Say what they would about the Human's lack of physical strength, they were skilled when it came to fortification. Determination, and determination alone would see this battle through.

Fortunately, if there was one thing Torikus was known for, it was just that.

"Message to all armoured units; forward assault. Infantry, move in and support. In the name of the Gods, break this city open."

On the south-west tip of the Human defences, Andreas Vargas, militia captain of that section, took a swig of his canteen. It was stiflingly hot in the trenches, and the chafing grit and the blinding sand thrown up by the enemy mortar fire did little to add to his comfort. He was manning a mounted M247 GPMG, and was thankful for the armour plating welded to the front of the gun. He'd lost count of the number of times it had caught a plasma bolt meant for his face.

They'd driven off groups of massed Jackals a few times now, the sustained bursts of 7.62mm rounds proving too much for the scrawny alien's luminescent energy shields, which flared a bright red as they were steadily overloaded, before finally collapsing. Then the killing really started, as his men pulped the enemy left, right and centre. It had been some time since the enemy had dared to stray back into his kill range. They were waiting for something, he was sure of it.

His spotter, a bearded gent called Smith, saw it first. He lowered his field glasses, mouth gaping. Vargas frowned and went to have a look himself. He dropped his open canteen, heedless as the open container glugged out its liquid onto the parched sandy floor. Transfixed, all he could do was stare. It was Smith who finally grabbed the com set, bawling down the receiver.

_**"Scarab!"**_

He never got a chance to elaborate. A ten foot thick beam of energy rolled over them; evaporating their flesh before they could even scream.

* * *

"It seems the Jiralhanae general has committed everything to the fight." Vtan observed.

"Crunch time." Abelev agreed, "We need to stop those southern walkers before they get any closer."

"And the larger Scarab?"

"That's the trillion credit answer, isn't it? I don't think we've even got anything that can scratch the surface of it. Heck, you tell me, they're your war machines."

Vtan shook his head.

"I have not seen one of its like before; its design is unfamiliar, and no doubt of Jiralhanae origin."

"Well unfamiliar or not, we still need to kill the fucker."

Unsure of what to say next, the two commanders turned and silently watched as the three massive behemoths stomped toward their lines, undaunted. Behind them, the Wraiths began to advance too, bringing with them a tide of Covenant ground troops.

The battle was only just beginning.

* * *

Perry knew the AV-14 had not been designed with cork-screws and loop the loops in mind. That's exactly why he tried them anyway.

He didn't have much of a choice; he was jinking and weaving between Horizon's taller buildings, desperate to evade. At least six Banshees screaming behind him, unleashing a storm of azure fire after him. The shots ripped into the concrete around him, blowing massive chunks out of the building facades. Tinkling glass and flaming fragments of shrapnel rained down upon the streets below.

Any hope of reaching the western lines had long since faded. Right now, it was all he could do to just stay alive.

The warning beacon started bleating again. No matter which way he turned, it would fade out for a second, then flare a bright red once more. He was doomed.

A scintillating tirade of plasma fire lanced out over his canopy, decimating his would-be pursuers. A Banshee, its hull painted in a sloppy coat of green paint, shot up amongst the Loyalist pack, weapons spitting and killing. It shot through the centre of the enemy formation, snapping about on a second attack run. Within seconds, nothing remained of the purple ships but streamers of flaming shrapnel.

The green Banshee drifted up off Perry's port side, waggling its wing-tips in a respectful salute.

"Perry-Human! I have looked forward to the day when you and I might fight as one,"

Zuka's voice was positively jubilant, "Come, Friend-Perry, let us show these dogs what true piloting really is!"


	24. March of the Scarabs

_"Hah! Blind Unggoy would make for more worthy foes!"_

_- Helmsman Zuka 'Ornon, on the subject of Jiralhanae piloting skill._

* * *

"Stay down!" Brambley shouted, heeding his own advice just in time as the Super-Scarab turned its baleful gaze toward the Inner Trenches. There was a soaring fizzing sound, and within a heartbeat two of the last remaining Scorpion tanks had been reduced to molten slag.

Munitions carts being hauled up the innermost trench detonated as they were cooked off by the bubbling green fire, the explosion denting some of the revetments which shored up the Curtain Wall itself. The Wall trembled under the impact, knocking some of its sentries off their feet. One colonist almost fell to his death, his arms madly pin-wheeling in the air before his desperate comrades snatched him back from the brink.

"Song, anytime you're ready…" Brambley urged into the mic, teeth gritted.

"I can't hit it yet, Lieutenant," Song replied patiently, "We need to draw the bastard in further before I have a clear shot."

"I'd love to invite him in, but I can't afford to let the Covies in the trenches get any further than they already have."

He really couldn't. The Jiralhanae were working their way up through the network of trenches leading up to the first Inner Trench. The defenders had little choice but to counter-assault, and hope to break the Jiralhanae foothold on their lines. The alternative was to invite a hell-storm of plasma grenades from Jiralhanae grenadiers. He'd seen it before, too many times. _Time to get stuck in_, as Abelev would say.

"Forward units, prepare to charge."

The Inner Trenches were small canyons, easily fourteen feet in their deepest section, and conscript militia - their orange overalls stained a sooty brown by the ash-filled air - choked the passageways, eight lines deep. Their faces were taught with tension, salty sweat itching at their dust-caked skin. They knew what was to come. He'd briefed them for this eventuality personally.

Joseph Brambley, an unassuming man with a neatly trimmed moustache, was an honest fellow. They all knew what their chances were. He'd told them as much. Which was why he was leading them in himself. Basic leadership 101: "Never give a man an order, unless you're prepared to do it yourself". Words Brambley lived by. Ones that would also get him killed, quite probably.

"Artillery barrage inbound." Song's voice reported. A series of muffled crumps shook the ground, sending a drizzle of silt spilling over the trench lip.

"Deploy smoke." he instructed, listening to the _thunk, thunk, thunk _of mortar fire. Smoke canisters rolled and skittered down across the open space between the two lines, thick coils of white fog hissing up into the air. Crassus' winds did the rest, spreading the wispy smoke across the Northern Lines, obscuring everything. A wall of mist hung before them, deep and impenetrable. Only the faint silhouette of the god-like Scarab remained partially visible, a hazy nightmare in the haunting gloom.

"Ladders up!" he called. The order went down the line. A dozen scaling ladders were propped up against the lip of the trench. Squad leaders clambered up, their men clustering around below them. Nervous looks were exchanged, and nerves were swallowed.

"Fix bayonets!" Brambley ordered, sliding his own combat knife into the custom-fitted bayonet lug. The call went down the line, and there was a shrill scrape of metal-on-metal as the colonists complied. One of the main modifications made to the conscript issue MA5B during their construction was the addition of the bayonet lug.

With its furniture pared down to begin with, the MA5B-H - so-called for its extensive use in the Battle of Horizon - was easily able to accommodate the inclusion of such a feature. Indeed, the gun became a notoriously reliable weapon, boasting easy maintenance and simple functionality. It was said that one could drop an MA5B-H in the sand, barrel-first, and it would still fire afterwards without jamming - something of a must, considering the nature of the theatre in question.

It was time. He was already on top of the trench, back-lit by the coiling fog.

"Over the top!" he urged with a wave of his hand, "Move, move, move!"

With a resounding yell, men began scrambling up the cargo netting lining the wall of the trench, clambering over the trench lip and charging out into No Man's Land. Countless men and women were cut down as tracers ripped through the fog.

The Jiralhanae had a keen appreciation for the blunt ferocity of the human machine gun posts, and had redeployed them to use against their former owners. The man to Brambley's left collapsed forward, almost sawn in half by the snapping storm of bullets. Half of the colonists who went over the top barely made it more than two steps, many of them having been blown back into the trench from whence they came.

Brambley had no choice but to keep running straight into the jaws of death, his boots slapping against the tortured landscape.

Unlike the others, he did fire, nor did he yell. He was swift and silent as he plunged through the dense mist, his rifle raised and ready. Suddenly, he was through, emerging from the smoke right on top of the Jiralhanae position. Intent on spraying toward the other defenders' tell-tale muzzle flashes, they didn't see him until it was too late. His BR-55 barked as he opened up on them, shooting from the hip. The steel-jacketed rounds made them dance and jerk as they died, their ruined power armour fizzling as it was punched away in fist-sized chunks.

One of them was still breathing, and with a roar, Brambley sunk his bayonet down to the hilt into the beast's heart, before finishing it a savage twist.

He looked up, panting heavily. A dozen Jiralhanae turned toward him, incredulous at the human who had suddenly appeared in their midst.

Not good.

Suddenly the colonists plunged through the smog as one, a flood of muddy, blood-flecked fatigues and blazing gunfire. There was no time to reload in the close quarters, and it soon came down to intense hand to hand grappling once more, the colonists bludgeoning the Unggoy and Jiralhanae with vengeful savagery. The staggering numbers of colonists carried them through, and they swarmed over their towering opponents like enraged worker ants, slashing, stabbing and clubbing. Many would stab their rifles home, then open up on full automatic out of sheer hatred.

The Brutes, unbalanced by the ferocity of the charge, began to fall back, attempting to regroup. Brambley watched one Brute try to crawl free, a half-dozen pick-axes and assault rifles embedded in his back. The militia hounded the invaders every step of the way, heedless of the Scarab towering ahead. Right now, it was kill or be killed, and their blood was up.

_We could turn this_, Brambley thought to himself, _we could actually turn this_. He stepped up onto a rock, rallying the men around them.

"Follow me! We need to-"

Whatever he was about to say, he never got a chance to finish. A single-beam rifle round sliced through his temple, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. Death was instantaneous.

Joseph Brambley had rallied the Northern Defences, a tireless source of inspiration and encouragement. His tempered discipline and keen understanding of battlefield practices had held the militia forces together throughout some of the hardest pushes made on the city's defences to date, constantly instilling morale with his steadfast leadership and clear, concise communication.

His death shattered that morale. The Jiralhanae cackled as the humans broke and fled, repaying the heretical vermin for their insolence. Every inch of ground taken was quickly lost, and it was only after a desperate thirty minute struggle that Rukth's Sangheili were able to throw back the Jiralhanae berserkers. Three times they were almost overrun, before Bravo platoon, regrouped under Sergeant Howard, came in to support.

The tide had turned, but not for the better.

Laying prone on the side deck of the _Ubiquitous Triumph_, Yik, Slayer of Men, lowered the rifle with an icy smile. With a single shot, he had routed the entire Human army. He de-activated his ocular enhancement scope, pushing it aside. Pathetic, really. Unlike the Kig'yar, these Humans fought for nothing but their own survival. A foolish business position, if ever there was one.

Yik was different. An astute entrepreneur, the Kig-Yar Skirmisher had already signed his Pact of Agreement with the High-Chieftain himself. A small fortune's worth of territory and honour-tithes, in return for a single, glorious prize: the death of a Sangheili Shipmaster.

"Brambley is down! I repeat; Brambley is down!" Sergeant Lake's voice was piqued with panic.

Vtan pulled off the headset, looking up toward Abelev. The major had just returned from a meeting with Administrator Jennings, arguing yet again over the rationing situation. Though not an expert on the subtleties of Sangheili body language, Abelev knew that look. It was the same tense posture the Shipmaster had adopted upon learning the Unngoys' death.

"Major…" The Elite said, voice solemn as he turned his helmeted visage toward Abelev, "Grim tidings from the Northern Front…"

* * *

Zuka's Banshee was truly a mess. It was clear that the Elite had taken great delight in painting it himself; the brush strokes haphazard and sloppy. It hadn't been so much coloured, as slopped on at random. So long as it was green, Zuka was happy. Anything but the imperial purple of the Covenant. Somebody had evidently taken the time to explain to him the necessity of transmitting proper IFF codes, as the Elite's Banshee wasn't appearing as a hostile target to Perry's systems. That said, something had clearly been lost in translation, as the particular IFF code transmitted by the Banshee was that of one of Horizon's freight trucks.

But oh how it flew! Time and time again Zuka tucked in behind the dumb-struck Jiralhanae, unshakeable. He took delight in tearing them from the sky. Perry had been a pilot all of his career, and had clocked in more flight hours than anyone else on the planet, but Zuka was exceptional, even by his standards. The two different craft complimented each other well. Perry's AV-14 was a hovering gun-platform, easily capable of tracking and destroying the Banshees, provided they weren't gunning for him.

Zuka's Banshee, with its graceful rolls and blurring speed, was the bait - rounding up and luring the foe into the range of Perry's withering firepower. They used this to their full advantage, corralling the enemy into fearsome ambushes they couldn't escape.

Perry's eyes narrowed as a Loyalist Banshee slipped into his crosshair, trying to evade Zuka's dogged pursuit. The crosshair pulsed a rosy red, and a target lock pinged. He depressed the secondary fire trigger. A single missile rushed out, puncturing the sleek ship's starboard hull. The explosion ripped clean through the far side of the craft, blowing giblets of the Brute pilot out with it. Perry nudged the flight stick to the right, rolling his ship around in a wide loop.

"I sincerely hope you've got a plan, Z." Perry said, the chattering of his own twin-linked chain cannon threatening to drown him out. "Because these skies aren't getting clearer anytime soon."

"Do not fret, Perry-Human, everything is in order. The Scarab to the south-east. We're going to kill it."

Perry balked at the prospect of the two of them taking on one of those monsters alone. He only had four missiles left, and his hard rounds were running low. He switched to the COMTAC frequency.

"Command, confirm new orders are to engage the south-eastern Type 47, over."

Much to his surprise, Vtan's voice answered him. The image of the towering Elite wearing a com headset made him smile.

"Correct, friend Perry. May your ancestors guide you in your noble purpose."

_Now if only my ancestors could show up with a FENRIS nuke._ The low-fuel indicator periodically pinged again. _Or some fuel._

"You don't ask for too much, do you Chief?" Perry chuckled darkly, switching back to his link with Zuka.

"Alright, Helmsman, form in for an attack run and keep those fighters off my back."

The Scarab loomed up in Perry's canopy display. A half dozen Banshees clustered above it, forming a roving fighter screen.

"Let's do this."

* * *

Abelev had fallen into a sullen mood. Brambley and him had often been at odds, ever since their unscheduled marooning on Crassus, but the major had respected and valued his subordinate immensely. He would be missed.

"Word from the Huragok, Major" Vtan reported from the com terminal he was stationed at, "Preparations for the secondary air defences are now complete."

Abelev nodded, blinking out of his reverie. It wasn't full revenge, but it'd had to do for now.

"Grease those apes."

The rail lines, having been silent for some time, cranked into life once more. The power needed to run the system was demanding, and as a result significant reserves of Horizon's fuel was being rerouted there. The rest was being directed to the cars themselves. The small contingent of Huragok rescued from the Outcast ship had been put to good use, and most of their time had been expended modifying some of the remaining rail carts. The human engineers had taken ages to try and explain to the enigmatic floating aliens what they had in mind, before the Huragok seemed to come to the idea on their own. Once understood, the work had been completed in a matter of hours; a joint venture between the silent floating aliens, and Horizon's best engineers.

The train chugged out from the enclosed rail station, trailing with it the newly updated carts. This time they did not bear the clumsy howitzers seen in the opening engagement. In place of the massive cannons was a single Archer Missile pod, which swivelled about freely on a rotating axis plate. The controls were slaved to the starport control tower, where Lieutenant Sonya, one of Song's subordinates, directed the target-lock systems for the laser guided weapon. They chimed eagerly, highlighting each enemy aircraft in an angry red square.

"Target lock initiated," she announced. "Firing."

* * *

Perry went to fire again, when his target exploded before he even pressed the firing stud.

"Zuka, was that you?" Perry frowned, checking his scopes for confirmation.

"No, Perry-Human," came the response, "I have claimed many lives this day, but that was not one of them."

Rising up like a lethal fountain of destruction, the missiles shot toward their targets, tracing gentle contrails through the air. The end result was quite a contrast, each Banshee bursting into cloudbursts of flame and shrapnel. The Loyalist air forces, panicking at the loss of so many of their fighters, turned away and darted for the horizon, their engines gunning at full capacity. Perry heaved a sigh of relief, the immediate pressure of the dogfight dissipating.

At last, they had a clean shot at the Scarab.

They came down on it from on high, swooping in on an inspection pass. The Scarab was about to stamp over the outer trenches to the south-east, most of which had been abandoned in the face of the Type 47's impending assault. Long black smears of scorched earth, filled with the blackened bones of fallen colonists, marked the areas where some hadn't been lucky enough to escape in time. Beneath it massed the Jiralhanae host, a ruddy blur of brown fur and blue armour, interspersed with flecks of gold.

The two pilots unloaded on the Scarab's spine, their fusillade of hard rounds and sizzling plasma dinking harmlessly off the hull. They parted and swept in separate directions, the Scarab's return fire splitting the heavens.

"The armour plating's too thick!" Perry cried, wincing as one of the deadly blue beams slashed a tad too close for comfort, singeing the hull.

"The rear of the vessel, Perry," Vtan's voice crackled, "It has always been the weakness of our walkers. Exploit it; focus your fire there!"

"Trying!" Perry's warning indicators were blaring from the constant barrage streaming up from the Scarab's rear mounted turret, "It's not exactly making this easy for us."

"Allow me." Zuka interjected, swooping in to assault.

Weapons crews stationed atop the massive walker opened up in retaliation. Zuka rolled to port, undercutting their fire. His answering fuel rod blast wiped them out in a single stroke. Distracted, the Scarab's AA turret swung about, targeting Zuka.

"The way is clear, Perry," the Sangheili cried, "Strike now!"

Perry fired. His rockets arced forward, slamming into the rear of the monster. The armour plating disintegrated in a cascade of flaming scrap-metal and blue sparks, showering down on the Jiralhanae troops below.

"It's a hit!" he exclaimed, peeling off. As the smoke cleared, the Scarab continued to trudge forward. Smoke licked from its wound, but it was still going. He had dented the beast, but it hadn't been enough. Swinging his cockpit around to bear, Perry squeezed the fire trigger once more. Nothing. The readout counter read a crimson zero. He was out of ammo.

They had failed.

"Target status?" Vtan asked over the link.

"Functioning, I repeat, functioning. The bastard's still walking!"

"Not for long." Zuka's line was garbled with popping static. Perry frowned, twisting about in his seat to peer down at his wingman. The Sangheili's Banshee had been winged by the massive rear-mounted plasma turret during his previous attack run. Fire streamed openly from a number of places across the ship's hull.

The interior of Zuka's cockpit was spattered with his own blood. Warning sigils flashed back and forth, flickering from amber to crimson and back again. One of the side control panels had exploded, the shrapnel digging deep into his flesh. His left arm had been crushed by twisted metal, pinning him in place. Worse still, his weapon systems were inert, and the missile firing control had fused itself shut. Flight control was barely responsive. He still had one war-head left to launch, but no means with which to fire it.

His right hand shaking, Zuka guided the ship around in a lazy loop. He activated the com, grinning through blood-flecked mandibles.

He had only one course of action left to take.

"It has been an honour flying with you, friend Perry-Human." He gripped his hand around the emergency-thrust control, lining up his Banshee with the massive walker .

"We have become legends this day."

"Zuka, what in God's name are you doing man?" Perry's voice was incredulous, "Abort the attack; get out of there!"

"My path is clear, Perry-Human. Farewell, my friend." Zuka said simply. With a defiant roar, he ramped the throttle up to maximum.

_"For Sanghelios!"_

With a final flare of his engines, Zuka's ship ploughed into the rear of the _Unparalled Destruction_ at full speed. The explosion was visible from orbit. Hundreds of Jiralhanae shock troops died as they were flung into the air like rag dolls, and dozens more were crushed beneath the Scarab's disembodied legs, which clanged to the ground with a resounding clang. With an eye-scalding flash, the Scarab was gone.

So too was Zuka.

* * *

"They're coming over the top!" Corporal Purvis warned, before a spike grenade caught him in the mouth, spilling him back into the trench and ending him with a messy explosion.

The Western Line had fallen back to the Inner Trenches, and the situation was no different on the other three fronts. It was like some twisted version of _Whack-a-Mole_, with the Covenant assaulters popping over the trench lip, only to be blasted back out of sight by the beleaguered defenders.

"Blow the goddamn mines!" Grier shouted to his second in command, Captain Banning. She snatched up the two thickly insulated power cables, clicking the connectors together. With a twist, they synchronised.

The mines had been seeded all around the city, throughout the outer-trenches and beyond. An eclectic combination of anti-personnel, anti-tank mines, as well as civilian-made improvised explosive devices, it had been Abelev's intent all along to draw the enemy in as much as possible, before unleashing them. Buried beneath the topsoil, the only warning the Covenant got was a deep throbbing whine, as the anti-armour trip-mines cycled to full power. Compressed under the weight of the enemy army, they activated.

The mines detonated. A wall of sand rose up around the entire city, taking with it hundreds of enemy soldiers. A shower of body parts rained down upon the Inner Trenches, both human and Covenant - the corpses of the fallen only adding to the macabre downpour.

"Incendiary units, forward!" Grier shouted.

A hundred militia specialists hurried up to the firing step, fuel tanks sloshing. They wore flame retardant bodysuits, and many had opted to wear welding masks to protect their faces from the extreme temperatures. Those who didn't quickly developed a "flamer tan" from the exposed heat, and were easily marked out from their compatriots by their prematurely aged skin. The flamers themselves were yet another example of human innovation; originally designed for spraying pesticides in green house environments, the back-mounted canisters had been filled with flammable jelly, which was then channelled through a dancing pilot flame.

They opened up as one, washing the flames back and forth over the Jiralhanae unfortunate enough to still be close enough to the Inner Trenches. Howling in agony, the Brutes thrashed about on the ground, their screams growing shrill and piercing as their vocal chords were incinerated. The stink of napalm was overwhelming.

To a Jiralhanae, there could be no worse fate.

Terrified of meeting a similar end, the Covenant army fell back, the flames licking at their heels. Gunshots from the militia lines chased them back to the safety of the furthermost outer trenches, which were now an unrecognisable patchwork of deep craters and collapsed foxholes. Charred bodies were scattered everywhere.

Perry wrestled with the controls. The fuel gauge had been critical for some time now, and the control pedals were acting up, becoming sluggish and heavy. He was running on fumes.

"Eagle Lead, do you copy?" Elaina's concerned voice drifted through on the command channel, "I say again, do you copy? Warmonger, you there?"

Perry didn't have time to answer. With an abrupt click, the engines cut out. The fuel counter was empty. The fans in the engine pods quickly began to down-cycle, but that was the least of his worries. Unlike a fixed-wing aircraft, an AV-14 is not a graceful or aerodynamic vessel. Quite the contrary, without power, it had all the flying skill of a brick. It fell from the air like a cannonball, plummeting down over the eastern lines.

The ground rushed up to meet him.

With a slam of jolting metal, the world went black.

* * *

Day One of the siege had come to the end, with the Jiralhanae war machine coming to an immediate, albeit reluctant stop. Recognising the potential cost of simply storming the citadel bereft of infantry support and air units, particularly in light of the human's superior numbers. High Chieftain Torikus withdrew his armour, decamping his forces in the newly occupied Outer Trenches, which from this point on would become known as the Covenant Trenches. The damage dealt to the Covenant invasion force had been considerable, and the loss of the _Unparalled Destruction _unthinkable, but the Human defences would surely fall within a matter of days. It was inevitable.

The sun began to sink, and soon the only light sources were the moon's gentle glow and the soft crackling of dying flames, echoes of the day's carnage. Exhausted, both armies slept in their trenches, the stench of burnt hair, seared flesh and cordite doing little to aid their rest.

In the morning, the struggle would begin anew.


	25. Day Two: Instil and Inspire

_"… that the situation had quickly become dependant on the actions of a few, charismatic figures was made abundantly clear by the second day of the siege. Then, and for the rest of that pitiless weak, the ultimate fate of the colony would rest entirely on their shoulders…"_

- From "The Crassus Campaign - A History."

* * *

Light. Trapped beyond the bumbling grey clouds, it suffused the sky with a dull glare that made his eyes ache.

What made things even worse was that the sky itself was skewed, as if the entire world had been twisted on its side, like a badly set picture frame. Perry groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, skull throbbing as the sun seared bright-white spots onto his eyeballs. It felt like he'd drunk the entire colony's supply of liquor, and been unfortunate enough to survive the experience. Barely. Right now, his brain was fervently trying to desperately gnaw its way through the roof his mouth. He let out another groan.

The next thing he noticed was that he was cold. No, that wasn't accurate enough. He was freezing. The canopy was missing, presumably having been torn off in the sheer force of the crash. He'd yanked his ejector cord, but it had evidently malfunctioned, as the cord was still clenched in his balled fist.

"So much for safety procedures," he remarked sourly, flinging the useless yellow cord aside.

The pilot squinted through his cracked flight visor, trying to make out what the time display said. It too was shattered, from where his head had pitched forward upon impact. At least that explained why his head hurt so damn much. Perry reached up and pulled off his flight helmet, blinking into the cold morning air. Pale nimbus clouds hung in the air, serene and tranquil. It was so quiet. Was the battle over?

No, it couldn't be. It was dawn, and an entire army group of Jiralhanae didn't simply vanish just like that. He could hear the brittle cawing of carrion, as they picked at the bodies of the fallen outside. It was dawn, then. The vultures only came out then, before the sun really got cooking.

He went to move, and failed. Something was holding him down. When he looked down, he nearly fainted. The hull had buckled down over his legs, pinning in a vice-like grip. He tried to move them, but felt nothing.

_Are my legs broken? _Another thought entered his head, panic swelling up inside him like an infection. _Am I paralysed?_

Another alarming realisation popped into his head. He had to get out of here. Right now, the canopy was on its side, but in less than an hour, the sun would be up. The edges of the canopy were almost at scalding temperatures already, and this was even before the midday blaze. Perry imagined himself trapped, at the mercy of the burning sun, as it inched its way into the heavens. Once the cloud cover parted it would be all over for him. Directly exposed, and packed into a sweat-soaked, stuffy flight suit as he was, the pilot would bake to death in a matter of minutes. That is, if the Brutes didn't get to him first. He shuddered at the thought.

He knew full well what the Jiralhanae would do to prisoners.

"Over 'ere lads!" an voice called. It was human, but old, coarse with age. An English accent, possibly of London origin. Perry wasn't sure. He'd only been to Earth twice, and even then they were for advanced flight training, nothing more. He could barely understand it, such was its thickness.

"Quiet Hep!" another hissed, this one with a more typical Crassian drawl, "You'll bring the entire Covenant down on our heads!"

"Let 'em come, says I. Been sitting up on that ruddy wall for the past twelve hours. Reckon I could use a good fight."

The canopy shook. Somebody was clambering up over the side of the wreckage. A head appeared, peering upside down over the top of the canopy's side. An old face, wrinkled and worn from decades of exposure to the burning sun. A pair of mischievous blue eyes twinkled beneath a battered pair of grubby glare-goggles, which were pushed haphazardly up across his forehead. The man's grin revealed a series of denuded yellow stumps.

"'Ello!" The man chirped, seemingly heedless of being upside down, "Name's Hepburn, but Hep does it just fine. Just a sec, mate. Get you down in a right jiffy."

Hep's head disappeared from view. There was a metallic rattle, from somewhere out of sight. The relative silence of the still morning air was shattered as a welder flared into life. Perry ducked, covering his head as a shower of sparks sprayed up through the air above the cockpit, some of them splashing down over the controls with a lingering sizzle A warm glowing line appeared in the wreckage above him, tracing its way down dangerously close towards his legs.. A large chunk of the cockpit fell away.

Suddenly, he was free. Rough hands pulled him upward, and as he moved, blood and relief coursed through his veins in equal measure. He had only been numb.

Perry staggered a few steps, before his jellified legs tumbled him to the ground in a disorderly heap.

"S'alright, son, take it easy now. Looks like a mild concussion." Hep said, standing over him as he dusted off his hands. "Lucky to have survived all that, mind."

He wasn't lying. Perry found himself spread-eagled in a field of corpses, both human and alien alike. He strongly fought the urge to vomit. While he had been unconscious, the maelstrom of battle had swept all around him, as the two armies fought tooth and nail and fist to stake their claim on the contents of the ruined Hornet. It was all too evident that neither army had been successful, though both had paid a terrible price for their efforts. The scale of the carnage was hard to fathom. All around him, the golden sand had been stained a greasy black.

Determined counter-shelling from the human lines had extended the length of the outer trenches considerably. The Jiralhanae - quick to adapt - had begun to imitate the human's defensive emplacements, almost tripling the length of the Outer Trenches overnight. They achieved this using heartless slavery, working their Unngoy legions to the bone. Many of the Grunts were ultimately digging their own graves, before their limbs gave out of exhaustion or - in some cases - they succumbed to the sporadic mortar fire which cracked down upon the Covenant forces.

The tremendous Unngoy casualties hardly mattered to the Jiralhanae, who took the opportunity to use their fallen workers as a convenient source of rations, slowly roasting their runt-like corpses over crudely fashioned spits.

None of that mattered to Perry right now. At the moment, he was trying to get the measure of his motley team of rescuers.

Alistair Hepburn was a tiny, wiry man, whip-thin and just as tough. Like the rest of Murphy's Militia, he wore the dusty tattered clothing of an extreme desert survivalist. A scoped rifle was slung across his back - surely an antique, judging by the teak and brass finish. Unlike the rest of him, the weapon was immaculate. He squinted down at Perry, scrutinising him. He didn't seem too impressed.

"Funny, to think the Boss Man places such high importance on you." He remarked at last.

"Boss Man?"

"Yeah. Friends in high places, n'all that lark. Murph - I mean the Sergeant, he 'ad us inch our way forward since the sun went down. Took us the entire 'ruddy night to get over here too."

Perry wasn't sure what to say to that, so he managed a vaguely confused grunt, followed by an apologetic shrug. Hep didn't seem to be listening, and cheerfully gestured out toward the bodies all around them.

"Observe the carnage, guv. Notice the distinct and pleasing lack of Covenant gorillas currently infesting this region. You want 'em proper dead, you come to Murphy's Militia. Results guaranteed, and no mistake. Twelve hours we tried getting to you, but got to you we did."

"I, well, thank-" Hepburn cut him off.

"Lot of the boys wasn't 'avin' it at first, mind. Didn't want to risk their skin for some pilot who evidently don't understand the concept of a fuel gauge. So I says, 'Sergeant Murphy', says I, 'you give me two of the boys, and we'll get that plucky pilot bloke back in a two winks of a blind bat'. And, lo and behold, 'ere we are now, eh?"

Perry knew better than to try and get a word in edge-wise. He settled on an enthusiastic nod. Undeterred by the look of blank incomprehension plastered across Perry's face, Hep went to continue on his monologue. Perry took the time to study his other two rescuers.

One of them was fidgeting skittishly, stealing the odd hunted glance towards the silent Jiralhanae lines. A plump fellow with a sunken chin and an impressively maintained zinc-grey goatee, Perry knew who was. His name was Musgrave, and - until very recently - he'd been one of the lower ranking chefs in Community Mess Hall 14-B. He hosted the bingo night on a Tuesday. - something Perry had personally sworn to never attend. Musgrave had a tough aspect to him, as had many of the colonists, but even he couldn't hide his discomfort at their being smack bang in the middle of No Man's Land.

"Time to get moving, Hep." he urged, "Can't sit around waiting for the entire war to end, can we?"

His other companion, a silent mountain of a man with hooded eyes, extensive tattoos and an Adam's Apple the size of Perry's fist, grunted his assent. Evidently the strong, silent type. Perry had no idea who he was, but he looked big and mean. Definitely mean, considering he had a rocket launcher balanced on his shoulder. Meanwhile, Hep seemed quite content on battling it out with Musgrave. This clearly happened quite often. Hep was talking.

"'ang on a minute, boys. Can't you see the poor bugger's only just woken up?" The ancient tracker made an expansive gesture toward the carpet of ruined corpses, "And to this ruddy great big mess as well."

Musgrave's retort was drowned out by the droning rumble of a bass-like horn. It shook the pebbles and the corpses, making them bounce and jiggle in giddy anticipation. Perry's rescuers looked up, anxiously.

A mere four hundred metres away, a Jiralhanae scout platoon was picking their way forward, investigating the racket. They were but a prelude to the beginnings of the conflict that day, and demonstrated surprising stealth for such hulking monsters. Their dirt-brown coats also blended with the ruined top-soil of the battlefield, disrupting their outlines in an effective form of natural camouflage. It was only their glinting cobalt armour, coupled with the sunlight which winked off their toothed weaponry, that gave them away. Still, Musgrave only noticed them when they were almost on top of them.

"Shit!" he screamed helpfully, dropping to one knee and opening up with his MA5H in short, controlled bursts, "Contact, contact!"

The three militia fighters hit the deck, ducking behind the battered husk of the downed Hornet. For a moment, Perry was struck by a bizarre sense of déjà vu. He had seen this before: him, and three other defenders, holding off a superior number of aliens twice their size, and four times their strength. Only this time, there was about forty of 'em. Perry crawled to a long-since abandoned fox-hole, looking around for his side-arm. He cursed.

It was somewhere back inside the vehicle.

"ODST, rise and address." a filtered voice said.

They came from nowhere, and hit everywhere. The commandos had hidden themselves amongst the devastation, their opal visors dulled with soot to reduce shine.

They rose up from the ground like phantoms, battle-rifles spitting and grenades slinging through the air with startling accuracy. The amount of grenades thrown staggered Perry; entire bandoliers swung from their hardened body suits. Each action was preceded by a carefully aimed toss, followed by a bone-jarring explosion.

Behind them, the rest of Murphy's Militia rose up, some of them wearing ragged strips of dyed cloth strips to blend themselves into the terrain. So too did the Outcasts, grim figures in filthy grey robes. All manner of fire-arms; customised, improvised and antique, began to rip into the Jiralhanae vanguard. The sound was an intense cacophony, of varying pops and snaps as the Eastern Defenders fired as one. Wading into the wall of suppressive fire, the Brutes dashed across No Man's Land, weapons spraying. Some fell, cut down as they charged, while others still tripped and stumbled over the bodies of the fallen. It was a mess.

The ODST's moved forward to meet them, the militia providing auxiliary support from the safety of their fox-holes. Ten commandos rushed to meet some thirty Jirlhanae warriors. Hot on their heels charged the Outcasts, who moved with comparable fluidity, their cloaks swishing and knives glinting in the crisp morning air. Deep in the heart of the Outer Trenches, a reckoning was to be had. Caught in the middle, Perry threw himself flat as hard rounds whistled overhead, occasionally punching holes clean through the dented sheet metal of the battered Hornet. His three rescuers dove for cover too, knowing better than to get between the ODST and their targets.

Any moment now, Perry was going to die.

But what scared Perry the most was not the horde of advancing aliens, nor their broken corpses or the desolate landscape around him. No, it was the ODST themselves. Amidst a war-torn universe filled with mighty warriors, blood thirsty aliens and unstoppable super soldiers, these killers were human. They were no Spartans, no towering Sangheili or hulking Jiralhanae. Just ordinary humans, ruthless and efficient.

No, not ordinary at all. _Not even close._

They made killing an art-form. They moved as one, knees bent, weapons braced tightly against their chests. The coordination and tactical precision with which they dispatched the enemy was uncanny. They did what any marine fire-team would do; move, shoot, communicate, but it was the manner in which they did so that set them apart from the other soldiers stationed on Crassus.

It was perfection. Their aggression also startled Perry. It was unprecedented. Not only were they denying the enemy advance, they were counter-assaulting them, cutting deep in their horde with a flurry of well placed frag grenades and crackling small-arms fire.

By rights, they should have all been killed. To charge a Covenant platoon in such a manner practically begged for death. Statistically, even one of them should have been hit at least twice. So effective was their war-making, however, they advanced unscathed, bullets whickering into the ground all around them. Not one of them was even so much scratched. It was almost reminiscent of the propaganda movies Perry had seen early in the war. Only this time, it was real.

As they closed the gap, the platoon of Jiralhanae split down the middle, scattering for cover as detonation after detonation slapped them off their feet. Shields collapsed in a fizzle of electricity. The splintered clumps of Brutes flung themselves into foxholes and small craters, frantically trying to avoid the humans' blistering assault. All they did was choose their own graves, as bouncing grenades tumbled into their make-shift defences. The ODST fanned out into a defensive semi-circle as they reached the Hornet, bodysuits blending seamlessly with the ash-thickened terrain. Molikos shored up his Outcasts, deploying them in a standard Sangheili defence pattern. They had seized the objective.

Now they would have to hold it.

"Contacts, left side!" Specialist Mendoza reported, dropping to one knee and snapping off a tight burst.

The commandos' fusillade responded accordingly. Grenades flew.

"Fenton, Sweeney!" Murphy pointed to an abandoned machine gun post laying at the bottom of a shallow gulley. "Get that .50 cal up and running!"

It was a forlorn wreck, having been knocked off its mounting during the previous day's fighting. Perry doubted anyone could even lift it, let alone get it to fire.

"On it."

The two ODSTs broke off from the squad, slinging their weapons and hauling the gun back into place with a grunt of exertion. Their hands moved too fast to follow as ammo belt connectors snapped into place and the weapon sight was adjusted. Years of experience had paid off. Within less than ten seconds, the weapon was fully rigged.

"Weapon status, green." Fenton reported smoothly, "Engaging."

The commando swung the machine gun to bear, tracking it toward an advancing trio of Brutes. Sweeney kept him fed, his hands clearing out kinks in the ammo belt with practised ease. Rotational training in multiple disciplines meant that each ODST was capable of assuming any battlefield role, in any given situation. The strobe of the muzzle flash was mesmerising, the gun juddering as it chopped the charging Brutes down.

"Incoming Bravos, right flank." That was Watanabe, the squad medic. While a certified aid-man, she clearly hadn't skimped on her weapons training, and killed the enemy with as much gusto as any of her squad mates.

"Suppressive fire." Murphy ordered, ducking down beside Perry. The young commando's normally jovial personality was gone, replaced by an professionalism which was as terrifying as it was effective. Perry went to get up, eager to help.

"Stay down, Warmonger!" Murphy snarled, shoving the pilot back onto the ground. A rookie to this kind of situation, the pilot would only wind up getting himself shot. The commando moved up to the side of the wreckage, peering around the corner. He didn't even blink as a spiker round embedded itself inches away from his faceplate. He loosed off a quick burst in return, prompting a snarl of pain from somewhere out of sight. Three of his men moved up to opposite ends of the ruined Hornet, moving to cover the other angles of approach. Murphy knew he couldn't stay here forever, and Specialist Smith's next com message confirmed his appraisal.

"Hostile reinforcements inbound. Looks like another three platoons joining the party."

_Shite._

They'd stirred up the hornet's nest. The Loyalists were moving up to support the brutalised Jiralhanae incursion force, bringing with them a tide of Unggoy infantry. The ODST punished their advance severely, and Perry just sat there and stared, agog at their heroism. Murphy didn't pay him any attention, downing another Brute with a clipping headshot. The aliens roared in indignation. He'd just killed one of their squad leaders. A hailstorm of Loyalist fire sliced into the meagre cover provided by the ruined Hornet, which was deteriorating by the minute.

_Yup, they're definitely pissed_, he concluded.

"Time to move, Helljumpers." Murphy announced, touching the side of his helmet,

"Militia, pull back to the inner line. We've got it from here. Howard, we need immediate extraction on my position."

"Copy that, we are inbound, ETA two minutes." Howard's deep voice was calm and collected. Murphy had been right to bring him into the Militia's fold.

"Alright lads, time to go. Prepare for exfil."

There was a rumble of engines from the city's direction. Six M12 LRV Warthogs zoomed forward, suspension jolting their drives like peas in a can as they leapt over the narrow trenches . The ragged terrain transformed each crater and pot-hole into a thrilling series of bumps and jumps, and the engines seemed to growl in delight as the Warthogs were put through their paces. Two of the Warthogs were standard reconnaissance variants, complete with rear-mounted chain cannons. A delighted Marikos manned one of the weapons. They whirred into life as the ODST picked up the awe-struck Perry, dragging him bodily toward the transports. Howard grinned at Perry as Murphy dumped the pilot roughly in the back of one of the vehicles, before hopping into the passenger seat.

"Let's get the hell out of here." Murphy said.

"You're the boss." Howard replied, shifting the Warthog into gear and gunning the throttle.

The vehicles dashed away, back to the safety of the Inner Trenches. As quickly as they had arrived, the 105th Hell Jumpers were gone.

* * *

Gurakal, Squad Leader for three cycles now, led his Jiralhanae around the wreckage of the ruined Human vessel. The mysterious warriors in black had vanished. So too had their Shamed Sangheili allies, who had presumably fled back to the shelter of their Heathen Citadel.

Cowards.

"Squad Leader, look!" Jurok cried.

Gurakal turned toward his inferior. His eyes widened in surprised disbelief.

With a cataclysmic flash, the satchel charges Specialist Smith had seeded throughout the Hornet's wreckage detonated.

* * *

In the communications centre, things were starting to heat up. Abelev was pacing back and forth before the command display, a mug of cold coffee clutched in a claw-like grasp. He hadn't slept since the beginning of the battle, and his eyes itched desperately. On the far side of the room, Communications officer Joseph Williams frowned as his display screen abruptly went black. There was a pause, then the screen popped back into life. They'd switched to emergency power. He checked the status grid on their main supply line: it was dead.

"That's strange." he said aloud.

"What is it?" Vtan asked, appearing at his shoulder. Williams looked up at the Elite, worried.

"The main power line to Generator Twelve just went offline."

"Try them on the short-range carrier wave." Vtan instructed. Williams nodded, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"No response, Sir."

Vtan's eyes narrowed.

"Your assessment?"

"Not sure, Sir, could just be a glitch in the system."

"Curious.. Wait here, I shall investigate this myself."

Without another word, the Sangheili Shipmaster turned on his heel and left the room.

* * *

Their current situation was grim at best.

The ruins of the Northern Gate were a gaping hole in the middle of the Curtain Wall, and the enemy were seeking to exploit it fully. The collapse of the gatehouse had resulted in a tousled ramp of broken concrete and heaped earth, which led up into the city from the Inner Trenches below.

The defenders, recognising the significance of such a potential vulnerability, had spent the night shoring up the top of the ramp with the collapsed wreckage, forming a dense bulwark of piled rubble, twisted girders and smashed machinery. A line of colonists had spread themselves along the rim of the bulwark, using it as a base from which to deploy their 30mm mortar platforms. The fallen Scarab lay just beyond the bulwark, straddling the entire opening with its splayed legs. It now served as a defensive structure in its own right, having been filled with colonist weapons emplacements. Malwrekus' scorched head-crest had been affixed to a large pike, which had been erected on the summit of the Curtain Wall, to the endless outrage of the Jiralhanae forces.

Their fury was made known by the manner in which they attacked the bulwark. On the city's defence grid, the position had been marked as Position A-E3, and it would see some of the most intense fighting of the entire campaign.

Right now, it was under renewed assault.

This time they had come with tanks. With many of the Curtain Wall's emplacements awaiting re-supply from the city's ammunition stores, the Covenant had chosen to exploit the opportunity with a combined armoured assault. Three grav-tanks, all that remained of the Jiralhanae's artillery support in this sector, slid forward, plasma batteries belching.

Fortunately, the Brute's Super Scarab was nowhere to be seen, having stalked its way around to the western flank during the small hours of the night. The Wraiths' pintle-mounted plasma turrets dazzled and strobed as they drifted forward, their hulls notched and puckered from the incessant pinging of ricocheting MA5H rounds.

Rukth snarled as a plasma shell obliterated a Human missile crew to his right. Blood spattered down across them. He turned to the eight Spec Ops who swiped the mess away with a distaste.

"Again they test my patience!" he crowed, "Warriors, we must take it upon ourselves to silence the Hierarch's batteries, lest their wrath be turned on us."

"Lead, Squad Leader, and we shall follow." Olank nodded, inserting a new energy canister into his carbine. The other Black Elites growled their approval. They had butchered the enemy for hours, slaying hundreds of Brutes and slaughtering numberless hordes of Unggoy. Projected kill-to-death ratios by strategists in hindsight came out at an estimated seven-to-one, in favour of the Sangheili. It had proven a worthy test, for even worthier warriors, but one thing was certain.

Their ammunition would not last.

Already Rukth had cast aside his plasma guns, which had all but melted from over-use. The Spec Ops had taken to using salvaged carbines stolen from the corpses of their enemies, not wishing to sully themselves with the simplistic slug throwers used by the Jiralhanae, or the primitive weapons of their newfound allies. Right now Rukth dearly missed Zerat's presence, who had been tasked with rallying the precarious Western Front. His beam rifle would surely have been invaluable right about now.

"Follow me, my Brothers. Those who flee from danger are cowards, unworthy of calling themselves Sangheili!"

Rukth activated his optic camouflage, vaulting over the bulwark and dashing forward down the slope. His warriors followed unquestioningly. The Brute tanks were mercilessly shelling the bulwark itself, and twice his camouflage nearly collapsed under the passing fallout of the blinding plasma shells. The only sign of their approach was the bursts of dust kicked up as their hooves scuffed the dirt. The gunners, who were busy directing their fire toward the more visible threat of the colonist defenders, took no notice. Not until it was too late.

The Elites spread out, slithering across the surface of each of the tanks.

Rukth leapt forward, the sheets of plasma fire spitting out from the cannon warping and bending as they were reflected by his combat harness' translucent outline. The Jiralhanae manning the turret growled in surprise, tracking the turret toward him. His scatter of desperate shots met only thin air.

Rukth was already behind him. He gripped the Brute's head, bashing the Loyalist's face repeatedly against the turret assembly until the weapon itself dented under the impact. The Spec Op turned and then smashed his clenched fist down into the Wraith's piloting assembly. The first blow dented the plating, the second and third buckled it open slightly. The fourth, fifth and sixth crumpled it completely. He tore the top hatch free of its hinges, exposing the driver to the open air. The Brute pilot looked up, astonished.

Rukth de-activated his camo, then smiled. A fizzling plasma grenade was clutched in his hand.

"Greetings, Cur."

* * *

There were to be many accounts written concerning the Crassus Campaign, many of which would differ over their tactical interpretations of the conflict. However, it was unanimously agreed by all concerned that the Second Day proved to be little more than a grinding war of attrition, as both armies sought to gain advantage over the other to little or no discernible effect.

In the west, the _Jiral'han _- having incurred tremendous casualties during the activation of the mine field - made one last push. It was repelled, though at great cost to the defenders of the Western Curtain Wall, who - like so many of the city's missile batteries - were almost entirely bereft of ammunition by this point in the campaign.

Sensing this, the Jiralhanae made territorial gains accordingly, only to be driven back by the licking tendrils of flame unleashed by the militia's incendiary units. The stalemate continued, with hundreds of casualties mounting on either side, with the Covenant having gained nothing but a few blood drenched feet of territory to show for it.

As the second day drew to a close, the intense fighting did not. Sangheili Special Operations warriors, under Rukth 'Kilkar, stole out in the darkest hours of the night, inflicting massive casualties on the entrenched Jiralhanae. Many Brutes would awaken to find themselves surrounded by the corpses of their allies, their own throats cut.

Daring night raids were also carried out on the Eastern Front, with ODST and Exile elements performing lighting hit and fade strikes on vital Jiralhanae supply lines.

Of course, the Jiralhanae would not suffer this without returning their own pain upon their enemies.

As trenches were periodically taken, lost and then retaken, prisoners - both human and Sangheili - were snatched up and dragged back to the Loyalist lines, to a fate surely worse than death. Many were skinned alive. Their anguished screams were projected through large speaker systems, wafting up from the Covenant lines to terrorise the besieged humans. Nobody slept that night, as the wails and screeches became so shrill, they no longer sounded human. This would continue for the rest of the week. The full horror of the situation would only become apparent later on. Archaeological digs would later reveal a plethora of human bones, many of which bore signs of having been gnawed upon.

Determined to not meet the same fate, the defenders trebled their resolve, denying the enemy with a zealous hatred equal to that of the invaders.

* * *

Amanda Jennings stepped neatly to the side as a gurney rattled its way up the corridor, the medics shouting to be heard over the howling of their patient. The man had taken a spiker wound to the groin, and blood jetted out freely, the arteries brutally severed. They disappeared into a lift, the doors sliding closed with a gentle, merciful ping.

Jennings closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. That was too much for her.

She was in one of the city's many improvised medical centres. It had once been an administration building, one of their district planning offices. Jennings had encouraged all able-bodied non-combatants into assisting the desperately over-worked medical staff, in whatever way possible. Having spent a brief period of her early teens as an intern at a veterinary clinic, she had volunteered herself for this duty. She knew it would send a good message to the people, and their morale was at the forefront of her concern. Even if it meant having to witness things like that.

Amanda rounded the corner, stepping into the main treatment room. The walls were a soothing blue, but the scene happening inside the building was anything but.

The office had been cleared of all non-essential furniture, much of it having been impatiently cast out of the windows in an attempt to make space for more patients, who were clogging up the building with each passing hour. They were low on beds, and many of the desks had been appropriated to become make-shift beds, such was the demand for operating tables. Hastily erected curtains separated the more critical patients from view, but the arcs of blood which sprayed across them left little to the imagination.

Nor did the widening pools of blood which pooled out across the tiled floor, making the surface slippery and treacherous. The only sounds were the barked instructions of medical personnel, the moaning of the wounded, and - from both parties - weeping.

Most of the wounded here were people injured from the Covenant's initial bombardment. Shrapnel cuts, plasma burns, broken bones and torn skin; almost too many cases to count. The invaders were massive in size, and the scale of their weapons dictated that few humans survived a direct hit. She thought about the patient back in the corridor. Perhaps that was something to be thankful for.

Even so, the amount of suture kits and the supplies of disinfectant were running dangerously low. Many would die from treatment, as much as anything else.

The Sangheili wounded were another matter. She heard them before she saw them. There were three of them. One wore the crimson armour of a Major Domo - the Elite equivalent of a Sergeant - and was unconscious. Which was merciful, considering most of his legs were missing. Another Elite had been heavily sedated, the medics having to resort to cattle-strength tranquilisers to put him to sleep. It had taken the entire building's supply just to quell the tormented alien's howls, the denuded stump of his arm having been cauterised shut by a welder, of all things.

The third Elite was awake.

"Get away from me, you squabbling peasants!" The Elite swatted at one of the doctors, "Let me die in peace!"

The medical staff were giving the alien a wide berth. He was strapped down to the table by a series of large leather restraints, of the type originally designed for mental patients. Most of the higher restraints had been snapped by his agonised thrashing.

The dying warrior's strength was impressive, considering he had all but been disembowelled. Shards of broken needles still hung in his shredded flesh, from where the explosive crystals had detonated. Neon-blue ichor stained everything, and his guts were a tangled mess of torn entrails. Only his shaking hand stopped them from spilling messily across the floor. An exasperated nurse turned toward the Administrator, grateful for her assistance.

"We're just trying to help him, but he refuses treatment!" The nurse explained, ducking as the Elite sent a tray of medical instruments sailing overhead.

"Everybody out." Amanda ordered. Having thousands of more willing patients to care for, the doctors didn't have to be told twice. They turned and hurried off to help the rest of the casualties. The Elite turned towards her, blinking once in surprise.

"You… you do not seek to hinder my passing?" he asked huskily, his voice coarse with pain.

Amanda shook her head.

"Even if you let us, we understand precious little about your body's physiology. Our treatment might very well do more harm than good."

The Elite nodded soberly, pleased. His eyes were filled with acceptance.

"Then do me one last favour, Human." He indicated the straps which held his legs down, "These bindings, untie them. I will not die bound like some quarrelsome slave."

Amanda stepped closer, carefully unbuckling the restraints. The Elite stopped thrashing, and let her go about the task unharmed. She realised her own hands were shaking more than his. When the final buckle was undone, the Elite leaned back in his chair, sighing in relief.

"It was a good day, Human." he recounted wistfully, "Many times we denied them, paving the earth with the bodies of our enemies. The Shipmaster will be pleased."

Amanda nodded, suddenly struck by the impulse to reach out and hold the Elite's hand. She did so, and he looked at her in confusion. He seemed to sense her compassion, and gripped her arm urgently. She tried not to cry out in pain as the alien's grip bit deep into her skin. Even now, in this sorry condition, his strength was staggering.

"The Southern Gate..." he hissed, "...does it still stand?"

She nodded.

"From the last reports I heard, Lieutenant Lewis' men have driven off six seperate Covenant attacks." She patted his hand, "Your people were instrumental in their success."

He closed his eyes, and sighed in relief.

"Then I can die in peace, Human." He lay back on the table. "My duty has been fulfilled."

"What is your name?" Amanda asked. His eyes remained closed as he answered.

"Warrior Kruk 'Zarman, Minor Domo of the Second Detachment. Defender of the Southern Gate."

"Die well, Kruk 'Zarman." She smiled a brittle smile, "You have honoured us all with your sacrifice."

He never heard her. The dead cannot listen.

She bowed her head and wept.

* * *

The pitched fighting on the Eastern Front had entered a lull period. All was silent, but for a single piercing sound.

_Clang, clang, clang!_

Perry beat the antiquated cooking pot with a used clip of ammunition, the noise loud and invasive in the still hush of the night. His panicked heart throbbed in his chest, matching the sound's tempo. This had to be stupidest thing he'd ever agreed to do, in the history of the world, ever.

Musgrave had given the pot to him - any cook-able rations had been consumed hours ago, and until their next supply drop came through, the pot served little purpose other than its current one. A use which Perry was quickly growing to hate. Nevertheless, he banged the pot some more.

_Clang, clang, clang!_

Pack Leader Erakt heard the sound first. He motioned for the other fourteen Jiralhanae to fall in. They were well trained, and made very little noise as they ducked forward, Spikers at the ready. The only sound they did make was the rustling of their combat webbing, coupled with the odd clink of armour as they hustled toward the noise's origin. The Jiralhanae Captain held his own Brute Shot warily. He inched his way forward slowly, careful not to bump into something which would reveal their approach.

_Clang, clang, clang!_

Erakt's foot snagged the trip wire. It tugged, then there was a flash. He was blinded as a series of flare guns banged noisily into the sky at point blank range, sending two pulsing stars soaring up into the deep, dark sky. His entire squad was illuminated for all to see. Blinded, he stumbled about groggily, trying to swipe the after images from his eyes. There was thirty seconds of ferocious gunfire, and pain.

When the smoke cleared, all of the Brutes were dead. Murphy's Militia threw back the tarps under which they were hiding, rising to their feet and canvassing the bodies for ammunition. Murphy got to his feet, topping up the clip in his BR-55 with a satisfied smirk. He patted Perry on the shoulder.

"Nice work, Warmonger. I've finally found a use for you." he grinned, "Let's pack it up, boys; move two hundred metres back, then re-set the bait. Hep, you're Pot Man this time."

Scared stiff, Perry handed the pot and spoon over to Hep, who accepted them with a good natured grumble. Loyalist Phantoms shot past overhead, briefly bathing the trench in pulsing blue light. AA tracer fire tracked them as they shot straight over the city's curtain wall.

"I wonder where they're going…" Perry murmured, looking up at the sky.

* * *

They lurked in the night, invisible and murderous.

The _Jiral'ja_ infiltration team dropped from the grav chute of the Phantom troop transport, stealth-shrouds activated. There was five of them per team, and their instructions were clear. Destroy the enemy, using any means necessary. Supply lines, power plants, morale - anything. The idea was not open engagement, for to do so would be suicidal, not to mention a pitiful waste of resources.

The _Jiral'ja _were smarter than that. They ducked into the shadows of a parked tanker as a trio of Human troop vehicles rattled past, headlights flashing. The foolish Humans had no idea how close they'd come to death.

They slunk through the back alleys, working their way toward the objective. The spotters posted in the Phantoms high above had done their job well. They had observed the Human's movement patterns for some time now, gauging where the civilian shelters were likely to be. The nearest Human nest should be close enough.

_Almost there._

It was 3:30 AM when they first got wind of Jiralhanae infiltration. Administrator Jennings had just called into the Command Centre, her medical shift coming to an end. She should have been sleeping, but she couldn't do so on good conscience without first appraising herself of the ongoing battle. She was slumped in a chair behind Abelev, who was staring blearily at the bank of control monitors.

Across the city, the Shipmaster had made an unpleasant discovery.

"Disquieting." Vtan remarked.

He was in Generator Twelve, and bodies were everywhere. It was like an abattoir.

The Humans had been slaughtered piece-meal, and from the looks of it, they hadn't even a chance to let off a single shot. It had not been quick either. Blood painted the walls, thick ropes of gore dripping from every surface. The bodies were trussed to the rafters above; gruesome trophies which dangling limply. The Brutes had given them no quarter. He keyed the Battle Net.

"Major Abelev, we have a problem. It appears the Covenant have already breached the Curtain Wall."

"Say again, Shipmaster, I don't think I heard you right. The Wall is holding. Please clarify, over."

"We have a problem. _Jiral'ja_."

"Say what?"

"Brute warriors - covert specialists. I've seen their like deployed before. They move quietly, but their handiwork lacks... restraint."

"Impossible." Abelev snorted.

"Not from where I am standing, Major. Notify our forces. They are already inside."

Williams looked up from his console. The com line was alive with chatter.

"Sir, we're getting word from the shelters - their sentries haven't reported back in some time."

Amanda was wide awake now.

"Oh God." Amanda's voice was a horrified whisper.

"What?" Abelev scowled, irritated.

"Sarah..."

Abelev was already out the door, bellowing instructions into his com-link.

* * *

It was 3.45 AM, and Sarah couldn't sleep.

She didn't mind. She was sketching away in her notepad, humming away to herself happily. The sirens, the way the children all got to stay in the same building. It was all so exciting.

Currently, she was drawing herself atop the two Hunters. She'd decided to draw them wearing top-hats this time. She liked top hats. They were outside on the street, protecting her and the rest of the colonists in this shelter, because Mister Shipmaster had told them to. She felt sorry for them. It got cold at night.

She felt another odd bump outside. Mommy had made her wear her head-phones, listening to some composer called Bait-hoven or something, so she wouldn't get scared. She wasn't scared: there was no way Jib and Jubb would let anything happen to her.

The door to the shelter opened behind her. She didn't notice, so intent was she on colouring her picture. She frowned and stuck her tongue into the side of her cheek, scribbling with furious concentration. It was tough to keep the colours inside the lines.

Two streets away, the _Jiral'ja_ strike team crept ever closer…


	26. Day Three: The Curtain Falls

_"So…so many…" _

- Unidentified com broadcast, Western Line. _[transmission terminated error #3043 Timestamp Code 11/2552]_

* * *

It was the dead of night, and the hunt was on.

There were five of them in the Infiltration Pack. _Jiral'ja_ specialists, born and raised since birth to strike fear deep into the souls of their enemies. Terror was their speciality, and they did it masterfully. The Infiltrators wore cyclopean helmets, their single ocular visor depicting the world in a fuzzy mural of sickly green and murky grey. Personally, Kelb hated having to wear the Infiltrator Scope. The filter did exactly that - it filtered. It sanitised what they did, removing the visceral joy of the hunt. The savage splendour.

Without the helm, he would have been able to fully appreciate the glorious slaughter unleashed by the Pack twice already. There were three more suspected Human warrens left in this sector, before they were to make for the extraction point. Either old and frail, or young and tender, the Humans encountered thus far had offered little resistance, but Kelb wasn't in this for the challenge. They had feasted well, and his belly was full. That was all that mattered.

He held up his balled fist and his fellow Jiralhanae halted. Reluctantly. Like Kelb, their blood was up, and their fangs had tasted flesh already. It was all he could do to stop himself leaping out and mauling their latest target outright.

But he was _Jiral'ja_. The best of the best. The Sangheili had never appreciated the Jiralhanae's capacity for intelligent, asymmetrical warfare. Nor did their frail Human companions; _Brutes_, is what the whelps called them. Brutes. _What nerve._ It took a special kind of arrogance to defy the new arm of the Prophets; an arrogance borne in heresy. The thick-muscles in his jaw bunched. His fur bristled. Let them label us with their titles. _By Truth's Glorious Will, we shall not disappoint their expectations. _He licked his lips, realising he was still hungry for the prospect of further slaughter.

_Restraint, Kelb, restraint. Remember your training._

The street was clear for now. So fixated on defending the outer walls, they had left their interior virtually undefended. Only the occasional patrol slipped by, and the _Jiral'ja_ wisely let them be, choosing instead to blend with the shadows as the Humans strolled by, heedless. They would never how close to death they had just come. Restraint, that was the key.

The _Jiral'ja _Stalkers were different from their warrior brethren. They were - in Jiralhanae terms - the surgical scalpel to the Covenant Army's sledgehammer, choosing their fights carefully, before slipping away undetected. Still, the scale of their deployment was unprecedented: some thirty Infiltrator Packs having skulked their way into the midst of the Human fortress, and the rest of the Jiral'ja were poised to storm the Northern Gate, pending the High Chieftain's command.

Kelb shook himself. It was time to focus.

After all, the next Human shelter was just around the corner. Kelb ran his forefinger down the edge of his Ripper's barbed tooth. The skin split instantly, a tiny skein of blood trickling down onto the sandy earth below. Good, the blade was keen. So was he.

Wordlessly, they activated their stealth-shrouds once more; fizzling into a blurry rumour as they edged toward their target - weapons raised and claws ready.

* * *

Sarah chewed her lip, looking up from her notepad with a frown. Something was wrong.

She set her crayon down, pulled her headphones off and pushed away from the small table. The room had been a pre-school, once, and she found the babyish colours - all splotchy and vibrant - oddly soothing. The other kids were scattered about, snoozing and snoring and dribbling to themselves, their brows occasionally knitting in time to the thud of shell-fire outside. They had told them that it was just thunder, but Sarah knew better. There was no way she'd sleep now. Something prickled at the skin on the back of her neck, and as she stepped toward the entrance hatch, a trickle of uncertainty blossomed into outright fear. Something was definitely wrong.

She reached up on her tip-toes and stabbed at the door activation switch. An angry red bleat answered her. Child-locked. She pursed her lips in thought then, having failed to think of any other strategy, stabbed the switch again and again.

Miraculously, the door opened. Sarah gasped.

The door hadn't opened because of her. There was an old man standing before her, and a surge of relief coursed through her. It was Mr. Jenkins, their kindly old guard. He used to be a janitor, before joining the militia, and she had known him from school as a decent sort, soft-spoken and kind-eyed. She smiled brightly at him.

"Yellow Mr. Jenkins!"

He didn't reply. Instead, he simply stood there, unsteady and trembling on his feet.

"… Mr Jenkins?" she queried again, head cocked to one side. "Are you okay, Mister?"

Harold Jenkins paid no attention to her. Indeed, he wasn't paying attention to anything at all. His mouth hung open in a wordless scream, and he staggered forward on his feet like a drunk over treacherous cobblestones. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, a stark white. He managed a choking croak.

Then he face-planted.

Sarah shrieked. The other children were awake now, and when they saw what she saw, they joined in. Sarah's ear-drums warped from the high-pitched sound, but she didn't care. She was too busy on staring down at Mr. Jenkins.

And the gaping hole where his lower spine used to be.

* * *

"Argh, that noise!" Sraald roared, clamping his hands over his ears. Their Infiltrator helmets were designed to pick up the slightest sound: sentries' foot-steps, hidden booby-traps, anything remotely sensitive. Two dozen screaming children were the audio-equivalent of a nuclear bomb in a teapot. Kelb pried his helmet from his head, blood streaming down in thick ropes from where his ear-drums had burst.

"Silence them all!" he roared, raising his Ripper, "Kill!"

The ensuing gunfire was deafening, only it wasn't their own. Storming in through the entryway behind them was Gregor Abelev, a shotgun in his hands and murder in his eyes. Despite the sound of its name, the M84 Combat Utility Weapon was not a particularly delicate weapon. A relic from days long since past, it had carried members of the Abelev line - soldiers all - through conflict after conflict. True to its nature, the title _Old Reliable_ was scrawled down the length of its barrel in jagged, scratchy script.

A wide barrelled shotgun, it was designed for close quarters, and right now it was being applied with textbook lethality.

The Infiltrators combat harnesses were minimally shielded, in order to facilitate superior cloaking systems. They paid for this vital weakness with their own flesh and blood. Quite literally.

His first shell removed most of Sraald's shoulder, spinning him around. The second and third pulped the Brute's torso utterly, reducing the Infiltrator to little more than a stack of ragged meat on legs. Abelev managed to wing two more of the Brutes, who were blown back off their feet. Their Rippers discharged into the ceiling above in a dusty shower of disintegrated plaster.

Abelev knew surprise would only do him so well, and dove to the ground, pumping shell after shell into the startled Brutes.

The surviving Jiral'ja responded with admirable discipline, sending a blizzard of return fire overhead by reflex. The doorway behind him sagged under the barrage, the jamb all but shredded. Gun-smoke and the acrid stench of cordite tainted the air. All he could see was the constant strobe of muzzle flashes.

Abruptly the Brutes ceased fire, so did Abelev. So furious to kill their attacker, both parties were out of ammunition. As the rest of his warriors scrambled to reload, Squad Leader Kelb smirked.

Clutched in his hand was a Type-2 Antipersonnel Fragmentation Grenade, looking for all the world like some volatile grappling hook.

"Careful Human, I would hate to see what this would do to all those Younglings in the room adjacent." Kelb gestured toward the room full of shell-shocked children.

Abelev's blood ran cold. _Old Reliable _was a devastating asset in a pinch, but its reload speed was its greatest sticking point. Over eager and out of practice, the major had committed the cardinal sin of any close-quarters battle engagement: poor ammo conservation. A schoolboy error; he was out of practice, and it would cost him. His reckless charge had doomed not only himself, but all of the children too.

He had only one thing left in his favour: sheer balls. The Brutes had no idea he was out of ammo, and he had no intention of letting them know anything to the contrary. A man of many vices, Abelev was an avid poker player. Right now, this was the most important bluff of his life. He held the shotgun steady, unwavering, unblinking. Second ticked by. Neither party moved. The only sound was the sound of their own breathing, as the Jiral'ja backed up slowly, the grenade still held in Kelb's hand. A stalemate. The silence was overwhelming.

It didn't last long.

The wall behind Kelb didn't fall down. It exploded. There was a cloud of smoke and powdered plaster. Then pain. The Hunters roar shook the entire building as they surged in through the debris, shields raised. They hit the Jiralhanae at full speed, pancaking them against the walls. The grenade detonated as it was crushed, shrapnel whistling over Abelev's head. Incensed at having their beloved friend threatened, the Hunters stomped their feet on the ruined corpses of the Infiltrators, denting the floor with the clanging swipes of their shields. Soon only a bloody smear was left.

They continued pounding the smashed bodies long after they had stopped breathing. Abelev almost felt sorry for the Brutes.

Almost.

"Jib! Jubb!" Sarah squealed, stepping out into the hall, blithely ignorant of the thick ropes of splattered gore which caked their carapaces and dripped down onto the buckled tiles. _Either she's in shock, or she's getting far too used to life on Crassus_, Abelev thought grimly.

They snuffled their approval, stamping their feet in greeting, before bowing out into the street beyond. In their place a flood of militia - concerned parents all - stormed into the building, Amanda at their head. She swept Sarah off her feet, her eyes closed. For the second time, she had almost lost her baby.

Abelev, for his part, was more or less ignored, the colonists far too intent on checking the children.

"Yeah, don't mind me." Abelev muttered, "I'll just lay here and have a heart-attack."

As he clambered wearily to his feet, winded, Abelev cursed himself for being so out of shape. Had he not let himself go, he would have gotten here sooner. His knees ached. His back ached. Christ, _everything_ ached. Maybe he was better off in a command position.

He plucked a spent cartridge from the ground, pocketing it as a souvenir. The major looked down at the Brute he'd taken to pieces. He grinned.

_And miss out on schooling aliens? That'll be the day._

"Thank you."

He turned around. Amanda was looking at him squarely, and for once there was no scorn or bickering between them. Only gratitude; honest and sincere.

"I know we don't get on so well, Major, but for what it's worth… thank you."

"Thank me when we've won," he answered smartly, shouldering his shotgun and sauntering out into the night. He keyed his com as he made his way back to the Command Centre, still riding the combat high.

"Shipmaster, thanks for sending the Hunters for the assist."

"I did not send them, Major Abelev." Vtan's voice came back, "They were assisting me in hunting the Jiral'ja insurgents, and departed without warning or instruction."

"So you didn't order them out toward Sector 14-E?"

"No, Major Abelev, I did not. The Mgalekgolo's loyalty is unquestionable, but oftentimes they are known to possess their own motivations. It does puzzle me however; it would take something of critical important for them to deviate from their assigned duty."

The major spared a glance back at the ruined schoolhouse. Amanda stood outside, holding Sarah in a tight embrace. The Hunters stood over them, shielding them from all would-be attackers.

"Yeah, you could say that," Abelev replied.

* * *

Meanwhile, the battle outside the city raged on without cessation. Commander Song found himself directing the artillery cars to engage the enemy's western attack, and with good reason. The Super Scarab was back.

"Elevation thirty-two!" Song ordered.

"Elevation thirty-two, aye!"

"Fire!"

The howitzers roared. In the distance through his eye-scope, Song watched as the salvo tore across the front of the Super Scarab. The image flickered out of a view for a moment. When it cleared, the _Ubiquitous Triumph_ marched forward, unscathed.

"Hit it again!" Song cried.

"Firing!" Ensign Parker shouted. The platform shook.

Nothing. It wasn't even breaking stride as the shell slammed home. Its hull was stained and scorched, but for all intents and purposes, they hadn't even so much as dented the thing. It was barrelling down on the Western Line, its own emplacements blazing.

"Keep it up, I don't want that bastard coming any closer."

The next ammo cart rattled in. It was empty. Song frowned.

"Call for another reload," he instructed.

Another cart trundled in. It too was empty.

"That's it, Sir. The munitions store is empty." Parker said with some finality, looking up helplessly, "We're completely out of ammo."

The Ubiquitous Triumph was almost on top of them. Its mouth turrets flared hungrily in the night as it warmed up. There would be no time to escape.

Song lowered his binoculars and closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. He was tired. For three straight days, the artillery crews had placed fire for effect on the Covenant army, unloading an estimated three thousand rounds of explosives over a seventy two hour period. His men had worked tirelessly around the clock, giving it their all. They had done their best, and that's all that could be asked of them.

"It's been an honour, gentlemen." he told them. He saluted them, crisp and sharp. They did likewise.

Then the artillery platform exploded.

The massive howitzers split the sky with a droning lurch as they toppled down onto the buildings below, flattening some of the railway line as they descended. Sixty thousand pounds of metal ripped clean through some of the supply pipelines. A torrent of fuel and water gushed out onto the streets below. Sparks ignited. The fuel lines exploded, a wall of flame flaring up and immolating the defenders nestled across the top of the Western Pipelines. They shrieked and thrashed as they flung themselves to their deaths, limbs flailing as they tried to leap to safety. Their screams were mercifully cut short as they hit the ground.

To date, the initial Covenant attacks had been probing strikes. Torikus had carefully bided his time over the past three days, patiently goading the Human artillery to the point of exhaustion. This accomplished, there was nothing to stop them advancing upon the Curtain Wall unmolested. A full assault was ordered, and the High Chieftain spared no expense. He committed his full reserves to the attack. It was an all or nothing gamble, and characterised the Brute leader's penchant for knowing and exploiting the Humans' limitations.

Unchecked by the presence of enemy artillery, the Jiralhanae forces wasted little time in making the Humans suffer for having denied them their victory so long.

To the West and South, the attacks were the most successful. The Humans, lacking the incisive leadership and tactical coordination of the ODST or the unparalleled combat skill of Rukth's Special Operations Sangheili, soon found themselves in a losing battle.

Marikos' arms were numb. The chain gun sawed the enemy down in droves, and still they charged, driven by a fanaticism he himself once knew. He'd sent his ammo carriers back to fetch more panniers. The current basket was almost empty. The Outcast was alone in this trench section, which was stacked with fallen Humans. They had given their lives admirably, but they were not Sangheili. As it stood, Marikos was alone.

Well, not quite alone.

The only company in this section of the trench was a loathsome Human, a cowardly runt by the name of Cauldwell. He had soiled himself, and was doing little to help, choosing instead to cower at the base of the trench, his fingers jammed in his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the deafening carnage unfolding around him. His fake-tan was dripping down over his forehead as he sweated, and his hair - normally slicked back and sharp - was tousled and frayed. He wasn't cut out for war.

Marikos called out to him over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the oncoming packs of Jiralhanae as he cut them down.

"Come, Human, come and face your death by my side! Stand firm before the enemy!"

Cauldwell didn't answer. He didn't sign up for any of this. His talents were book balancing, filing PPR reports and driving stock prices. He was an MD of Traxus Heavy Industries, and he was _good_ at it. Besides, he'd seen what had happened to those who had gotten up to fire their guns. Not his scene, thanks. Better to stay down here, and let that alien _freak_ do all the fighting.

"Damn you, fool!" the Outcast brayed over the sound of his monstrous cannon, "When the Jiralhanae take you alive, you will have reap the full reward for your cowardice!"

With that he charged over the trench lip, straight into an advancing pack of Brutes.

Seconds later, Marikos' gun abruptly cut out. Steam rose up, twisting from the barrel, which spun and whirred though no bullets came out. His ammo was spent. With a roar he hefted the weapon over his head, wielding it like a cudgel. He bludgeoned two of the Brutes to death before the rest overwhelmed him, their weapons chopping and biting deep into his flesh.

Cauldwell didn't see any of this. He was too busy curled up in a foetal ball of unbridled terror, repeating the distressing mantra his numerous psychiatrists had taught him over the years. Eyes squeezed shut, he rocked back and forth, whispering over and over.

"Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together…"

He was still muttering to himself when the Brutes found him, two minutes later.

* * *

As Abelev entered the command centre, it became apparent that all hell was breaking loose in his absence. The gun emplacements along the Curtain Wall were all but dry, and there was no time for fresh supplies to be brought up. The missile batteries were dry, and - bereft of support - the Inner Trenches were on the brink of being overrun. The display map around the city was swarming with a pulsing blur of red "hostile" indicators. Friendly green circles, denoting allied UNSC and Sangheili forces, were winking out at an alarming rate.

"Goddamn it, where the hell is the Shipmaster?" Abelev demanded, snatching up the main command headset and putting it on.

"He departed for the armoury some time ago, Sir." Williams reported, before returning to directing a particularly distressed militia unit.

"Jesus Christ," Abelev spat venomously, "Just when I thought he was getting useful…"

He turned his attention back toward the orchestrating the beleaguered defenders. The Western Line looked like it was about to fall. It was time.

_May God forgive me._

"Recall all external forces." Abelev ordered, "Prepare to initiate Tactical Response 23."

* * *

Grier's men were being blasted back off the fire-step, tumbling down on top of the men waiting below, who grimly pushed the corpses aside and took their place. The monstrous Scarab blotted out the sun as it strode over them. Covenant soldiers on the side decks snapped shots down at them, the trench doing little to protect its occupants at such a vulnerable angle. The militia returned fire, though they stood little chance of being able to hit anything.

"MG's dry!" Trooper Lisk cried, snatching up his MA5B and resuming his suppressive fire. All across the line, similar reports were heard. The enemy roared eagerly as soon as the support weapons died out, and redoubled their efforts to storm the Human positions.

"Fall back, men, fall back!"

Suddenly new shadows fell over them. A line of Brutes, Grunts and Jackals had crested the trench, and were unloading into the Humans with gleeful abandon. Further down the trench, one of the fuel tanks of the incinerator units was breached. A curling fireball engulfed dozens of militia, turning them into human infernos which jigged and flapped as they thrashed about.

Grier raised his weapon, and managed to squeeze off two or three well placed bursts before he too was mowed down. The first of the Inner Trenches had been overrun, and those in the second trench - having seen what had befallen their comrades up front - broke ranks and fled, streaming back toward the Western Gate.

Through a combination of human error and technological faults, several squads were informed of the withdrawal far too late. They were surrounded as they made to join the retreat, their com-links picking up their final, tortured moments. In the Command Centre, an uneasy silence took hold as the com operators listened to these wretched, final broadcasts.

The Western Line had been routed.

To the South, a similar story played out. Only this time, there was no hope of retreat.

Sustained Covenant plasma bombardment had fused the door mechanism of the Southern Gate shut. The top of the Wall itself was a twisted lump of slag, having taken a series of savage blasts from the Type-47 Scarab assaulting from the South-East.

Hundreds of militia beat their fists raw against the gate in impotent panic, desperate to get inside. The defenders within were forced to listen to their desperate pleas for help as the Covenant closed in. Trapped like rats between the Curtain Wall on one side and the Covenant army on the other, Charlie Platoon and their accompanying forces had little choice but to fight on to the bitter end.

A salient had formed, and they were surrounded on all sides by hordes of encroaching attackers. Of Lieutenant Lewis' original platoon, only a pitiful sixteen remained. She didn't have to be a tactical genius to know the outcome in advance. She reached for a new clip, slapping it home.

"Alright, marines. Let's see how many of them we can kill."

Over the next twelve minutes, the remnants of Charlie Platoon accounted for over two-hundred and sixty two kills against overwhelming odds. No one witnessed their heroism.

* * *

At 04:30 on the morning of the fourth day, the Curtain fell.

It was approaching the end-game now. TR-26 was in full effect, and the battle was coming down to the wire. From this point onward, there could be no more retreat. To those in the city proper, the echoing sounds of the battle were becoming louder and louder, as the Covenant assaulters attempted to clamber over the Curtain Wall using all manner of techniques.

The fight itself almost became medieval; improvised siege ladders, grappling hooks, even vats of burning tar. Only the jet-packs used by the more specialised Jiralhanae elements marked it as a battle of the 26th century. The humans denied them for as long as they could, pushing the massive ladders back and hurling everything from grenades to stones to even their own helmets down upon the seething mass of invaders below.

Eventually _Jiral'ja_ sapper teams, operating from both inside and outside the city, brought the wall down in several places, allowing a horde of Brutes to flood into the city. They were met at every stage by answering militia counter-assault parties. These flashpoints would quickly become areas of intense struggle, as the humans tenaciously fought to deny the enemy access to their beloved city.

Eventually, it was Abelev's Scorched Earth policy that settled the matter. Satchel charges, spread out across the base of the Curtain Wall's foundational supports, detonated, collapsing the wall and wreathing the entire city in a layer of ashen, sooty smoke. The death toll on both sides was unspeakable. Only a select few sections of the wall remained, and these became largely ignored as the battle spilled out into the streets beyond.

Throughout those same streets, the situation was as follows.

To the West, the militia had fallen back into the habitation blocks, hastily attempting to collect themselves as they struggled to implement Tactical Response 23. Only the commendable leadership of Grier's 2-i-C, Captain Banning, prevented the enemy from surging deeper into the city. Marshalling her forces throughout the western habitation blocks, she began a cohesive defence in earnest, halting the enemy advance before it could delve deeper into the city streets.

Bogged down in the confines of the thick-walled, white-washed structures, the Brutes would have to fight street to street and room to room, the colonists punishing them with overlapping fields of fire and a zealousness borne out of pure, unstinting human hatred.

In spite of Torikus' earlier predictions, only the Northern Line still held. Irritated at having been proven wrong, he tasked the _Jiral'ja_ shock troops with taking this final point of resistance. It was perhaps a waste of resources, considering the Curtain Wall had been breached elsewhere, but he would not have his will denied by a pack of loathsome Sangheili heretics.

The East was an altogether more orderly affair, the Jiralhanae having to wade through ambush after ambush as Sergeant Murphy oversaw the tactical withdrawal. Problems arose in that vast tracts of the Southern line had been utterly annihilated and, as such, Murphy's forces were in the precarious position of being flanked at any moment. Anxious to protect the refugees hidden in the shelters beneath the southern mining complex, he sent Murphy's Militia, under Sergeant Howard, to rally and bolster the defences there accordingly. Confusion was rife amongst the human's rank and file, and Murphy found most of his time occupied with rallying the scattered elements of the southern defences, redeploying them as part of his own command.

For the rest of the conflict, tactical command of fully half of the city was now his responsibility.

It is understandable, then, that he failed to notice absence of the Sangheili Outcasts, who never made it into the city with them.

"Has anybody seen the Elites?" Perry asked, as their Warthogs sped through the city's outlying streets.

Nobody had a chance to answer. People were too busy shouting and shooting. Murphy was preoccupied by his data pad, busy trying to interface it with his helmet's VISR system. Moments later, yet another fire-fight had begun, and Perry had forgotten his own question.

Firmly embedded in the midst of the struggle, the Outcasts had been cut off from the main retreat. They had used their stealth talents to the fullest, allowing the Jiralhanae to hurry past without a second thought. Now they crouched in one of the forgotten Outer Trenches, huddled in a tight circle. Each one of them clutched a BR-55, the weapons looking tiny in their massive hands.

Molikos looked at each of his fellow exiles in turn, blinking slowly.

"Marikos has fallen." Molikos announced.

They hissed in outrage. Molikos nodded.

"It goes without saying, Brothers, that we are to repay the blood-debt thrice-fold."

"But how, Brother?" That was Kimyos, one of the youngest Exiles, "We may have evaded them for now, but getting back into the city will be impossible."

"Then we take the war to them, friend Kimyos." Molikos traced a rudimentary map of the city in the sand. "They wish to take this city, but to do so, they need munitions, food, supplies. The backbone of any army. I would have us sever that backbone. Are you with me?"

They rumbled their approval. He pulled his cloak around him.

"Then we go north, to the desert, Brothers. Even when engaged in combat with a mighty foe, only the most foolish of warriors would ever turn his back to the serpent lurking in the shadows."

With that, they disappeared, sloping off into the endless sands beyond.

When the Loyalist's main camp erupted in a billowing geyser of fire twelve hours later, the Separatist/Human forces could only speculate as to what had happened. Starved of their own supplies, the Covenant ground forces were forced to take Horizon not simply out of religious reasons, but also basic necessity. They would either win, or starve to death out in the unforgiving wastelands of Crassus.

The stakes had been raised.

* * *

Abelev found him in the armoury.

There were no weapons here, not anymore. The room's shelves were long-since looted; only the occasional stray shotgun shell or empty box of ammunition laying idle on the forlorn prep tables which dominated the centre of the room. It, like many similar stockpiles around the city, had been stripped bare. The place was all but abandoned, and Vtan had chosen it precisely because of its relative seclusion in comparison to the rest of the Command Centre.

To prepare for one's final battle was a solemn thing indeed.

Vtan had prepared himself in accordance with the old customs, using the precious few supplies he had managed to take with him from the _Pride of Sanghelios_. He had bathed himself in unguents, treating his scaly skin with scented oils in accordance with warrior tradition. His armour, no longer scoured by dust and sand, was polished to a dazzling mirror sheen. Its silver edged trim winked brilliantly as it caught rays of light cast out from the glowing oil lamps. In the dim half-light, it almost seemed golden in places.

Abelev folded his arms across his chest.

"Don't make me tell you twice, Shipmaster. You're not going out there."

"I am left with no choice, Major Abelev. It is shameful enough that I have dallied here so long. Do not attempt to stop me, or I shall kill you where you stand."

"You'd try." Abelev snorted.

Vtan slowly shook his head, almost mournfully, and spoke as thoughtfully as ever.

"There comes a time, Major, when the last order has been given, and the last command has been heard. When one has nothing left to do but to throw his forces to the winds of battle. To throw back his head and hope that one's skill can cheat both fate and chance and death. Using naught but one's own blade if necessary."

He snapped the blade on, then snapped it off once more. Satisfied, he gave a single nod, before looking up toward Abelev.

"That time is now."


	27. Day Four: Escalation and Infernos

_"By the time the walls fell, we knew the Jiralhanae were inside. Unleashed and unimpeded, it seemed apparent to all that our destruction was imminent."_

- Minor Domo Ri'kar, Collected Battle Poems: An Oral Tradition, 2753

_"Snipers, at this range? Pah, I would like to see them try!"_

- final words of Pack Leader Parikus Gor'tok, (kill attributed to Z. Omdolo, Sangheili Team Specialist; ONI Ref/K1138).

* * *

Relgar, High-Captain of the _Jiral'ja_, was an unusually patient Jiralhanae. This owed more from necessity and experience than anything else; the very nature of his combat speciality dictated that he - like the many warriors who served under him - was a patient hunter.

Even so, his patience was being sorely tested.

Already, two battle groups had been sent into the hazy mists of what had once been the Northern Gate. None had returned. As the smoke and the carnage dissipitated, the only sign that once-proud Loyalist forces had even gone over the lip of the ruined crater were the series of markers left by their stubborn enemies, the Sangheili.

_And what distinctive markers_, Relgar growled.

Another, more fitting word sprung to mind.

Trophies.

Stakes had been planted across the lip of the ruined Northern Gate, each totem bearing the disembodied heads of Loyalist Unggoy and their Jiralhanae squad leaders. They had arranged in a staggered row, eyes blank and mouths gaping, like some grisly picket fence. The surviving Unggoy - whose ranks were becoming thinner with each consecutive wave - murmured amongst themselves uneasily. To Relgar's disgust, some of his own Jiral'ja were beginning to exchange looks between themselves as they panned the macabre horizon with their field scopes.

He knew what they were secretly thinking about. The soul-thirsty phantom which lurked ahead, waiting to cull the Faithful from the majesty of The Great Journey's Path. That avenging shadow, that loathsome traitor; _The Black Sangheili_.

Enough was enough.

He turned to the forty Jiral'ja commandos who stood in rigid formation behind him. Their fuel tanks were full, their weapons ready. Their fur had been trimmed shorter than most, so as not to impede performance. Cobalt armour had been misted and sullied with splattered mud from the Human's sporadic counter-bombardment, but to his eyes there could be no finer sight: _Jiral'ja_, ready for war and eager to kill.

They stood to attention, their Ripper assault weapons folded solemnly across their chests. Like many of the weapons fielded in the Crassus Campaign, these were a uniquely-Jiralhanae eccentricity. Bolted onto the plating of their curved wrist-guards, the weapons were essentially a pair of traditional spike rifles, albeit lashed together and contained within a single fluted gun-metal casing. The weapons firing mechanism was linked into the glove of the _Jiral'ja_ power suit, and could be activated by a simple squeeze of the hand. This campaign was to be their first field testing, and as such the weapons had become synonymous with the more elite elements of the Jiralhanae field corps.

Though he knew their skill was great, and their faith in the Hierarchs greater still, he chose to encourage to them anyway. Warriors fought better with fires in their souls, as much as tactics in their heads.

"Listen, worthy _Jiral'ja_, and know that once more we go to the hunt. I have selected each of you as my champions, in the same manner as our great High-Chieftain has selected me… and so too the Hierarchs he. All across the city, our _Jiral'ja_ brethren un-seam their Citadel from within. Their success has been inspiring to our allies, lifting their spirits and allowing them to make great gains in breaking this mighty fortress."

"But it has put us to shame. Here, before our very eyes, the heretics and their gutless Human conspirators have defied us for too long. You have seen firsthand the butchery they have inflicted, the injustices carried out against our Sacred Journey."

He stroked a rune on the front of his golden breastplate. His jump-pack began to tremble in anticipation, like the opening tremors of some mighty earthquake. Tendrils of light began to glow all across his breastplate as it cycled onto full power, the turbines coughing into life. Now he had to shout above the throbbing of his idling jump-pack:

"Our prey have shown that they still yet have some teeth! Countless warriors have marched over that ridgeline, and to no avail. But this is the Seventh Age, my kin, when we march into Journey and Salvation. None, not even this…" he failed to keep the disdain from his voice, "_Black_ Sangheili can stop us! Together to conquest!"

"Together to conquest!" the Jiral'ja pack thundered the _Jiral'ja_, slapping the sides of their Rippers with their meaty fists. It was their traditional battle-cry, and the rejoinder for each and every one of his speeches. As usual, it had the desired effect: the warriors activated their jump packs as one, beating out a war chant as they clapped their hands against their weapons.

Relgar nodded, pleased, before turning and jetting into the air with a burst of his jetpack. His elite sprang into the air behind him, howling a blood-curdling war-cry. He would crush this Black Sangheili with his own two hands. Hidden behind his mouth-guard, Relgar's mouth split in a grin.

And he would relish every second of it.

* * *

They were crouched in the merciful shade of an abandoned machine shop. It was midday, and two men were taking a much needed breather. Both were too wired from the combat high to properly sleep. Hep was talking again.

"What I'm trying to say, Dave, is that we're not exactly winning here, are we mate?"

"Always building morale, Hep."

Hep grimaced, spitting a wad of tobacco onto the scuffed linoleum floor as he fiddled with the scope of his hunting rifle.

"S'not that at all, I just reckon it's a better to be a realist about these kinds of things, you know?"

Perry didn't reply. He was too busy guzzling down yet another water canteen.

Disconcertingly, he only had one refill left. It was midday on the fourth day, and they'd been on the run since dawn. The echoing din of the frontline crackled up from the southern refineries. Wishing to change the subject, Perry checked his watch.

"Where's our pickup? They were supposed to be here ten minutes ago."

"Dead I reckon, got on the wrong side of some Baby Kongs." the older man shrugged laconically, "Chopped up et cetera..."

"Again; ever the optimist, Hep."

"Hey, if it means not fighting for an extra half hour, then let's hope so."

Suddenly a transport Warthog squealed to a halt just outside the machine shop's open door. The driver, a battle-ready Helljumper, tooted the horn twice and waved them over impatiently. Perry and Hepburn pulled themselves to their aching feet, hobbling back out into the punishing sun. The driver was Specialist Smith, judging by the somewhat primitive skull and crossbones stencilled above his visor.

That, and the fact that even the helmet's voice filter didn't quite mask his ever-present sarcastic drawl.

"Break time's over guys: Sergeant Murphy wants you with us on this next one."

"He give a reason why?" Perry asked, clambering into the passenger seat.

"Hoping your luck rubs off on him, I guess."

"Fucking Irish," Hep grinned as he hopped up onto one of the rear seats, "I thought they're supposed to be the lucky ones."

The drive was a surprisingly long one, as Smith weaved his way through the maze of barricades, and line upon line of battle-weary militia, most of whom were traipsing back to be re-assigned after the near-total collapse of command discipline on the southern and western lines. Most of them were stained a sooty grey with ash, and cheered at the sight of the Warthog tootling by.

Others didn't, too zoned out from the combat fatigue; their eyes bulged like luminescent saucers as they trudged listlessly to wherever it was they had to go. The chances of their being relieved of duty were long gone, however. Four days into the siege, there were no more reserves left to commit.

"What's the sit-rep, Smith?" Perry asked, languishing in the passenger seat.

Smith didn't take his eyes off the road.

"That's what we're about to find out."

They pulled up in a small courtyard. The place had been a collection of decrepit apartment blocks, which loomed over their vehicle like towering headstones. Just ahead stood a rag-tag cluster of marines, militia officers, and communications personnel, huddled in a ragged semi-circle. In the middle stood Murphy and his ODST. Around them were their respective transports, a hodgepodge collection of Warthogs, civilian transports and "Mongoose" ATV dirt-bikes.

"Good of you to join us, Warmonger." Murphy nodded as they dismounted, "Sorry for yanking your arse back into the fray, but I'm a little short on trained military personnel at the moment and I could use all the able drivers I can get."

Perry nodded, not wishing to waste the man's time. Murphy hunkered down before the rest of the group, etching a rudimentary map of the city in the dirt with a gloved finger.

"Alright folks, here's how it's playing out..." he began to mark the map with large arrows, "We've got Bravo Kilos pushing hard on the East and South; Captain Banning's militia have managed to stall the infantry advance to the West, right here near the Hotel Luxembourg; but those holes in the walls can't be plugged, and more and more Covies are pouring in just as quick as they're killing them. North and West are holding, thank Christ, but for how long is anyone's guess."

"Has the entire Curtain Wall fallen?" Musgrave asked, rubbing his meaty jowls with a grubby hand..

"No, and we're better off because of it. Some of it's still standing, but right now we can't afford to push through and reinforce those who got left behind. For the moment, they're on their own."

Murphy continued before anyone else could interrupt.

"We're short on time so I'll make this quick. Your orders are simple; Major Abelev has just relayed me Tactical Response 23, or How To Defend Horizon in Two Hundred And Sixteen Rather Detailed Ways. Organise your squad leaders and section chiefs, and make this clear: it's to be followed to the letter. In the event you think you're going to be captured, eat it, destroy it, wipe your ass with it, whatever. I don't want this thing falling into their hands. Either we all sing from the same hymn sheet, or we all fold together. Simple as. We've got to stabilise things, and that's our only shot."

"What about the Scarabs?" Hep squinted down at the map, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

"What about them?" Murphy countered, spreading his hands helplessly, "We're short on ordinance, and we haven't got anything remotely strong enough to bring them down. I'm open to suggestions though, so feel free to chip in anytime."

"Do we have their locations?" That was Fenton, one of the ODST. He had a natural head for logistics and planning, absorbing tactics like a sponge.

"The Big Bastard - that's a technical term by the way - is stomping around the hab blocks near Banning's forces; they're keeping out of its way as much as possible, but we're going to have to deal with it sooner or later."

"And the other one? I recall there was another Type-47 active toward the South West."

"You mean Little Bastard, his smaller and slightly less inbred cousin? Lurking toward the southern refineries, not far from here. It's gotta be having a hard time navigating through that area, so my guess is it's going to try and slope around between the Southern Curtain and the eastern industrial manufactories at some point, press us from the opposite side to its bigger brother. As I said though, it's having a tough time wrangling its way through the refineries."

Perry studied the hastily scrawled map of the city. Murphy had thoughtfully included the estimated positions of the Scarabs, cheerfully denoting them with gnashing teeth and comically bulging eyeballs.

"Then that's where we kill it." Perry said suddenly. Murphy looked up at him. It was clear the commando was somewhat exasperated, having spent the entire night fighting. How he was still on his feet was beyond Perry. Still, there was no masking the fatigue in his voice.

"With what exactly, Warmonger?"

"The refineries. We lure the bastard in, open up the fuel-lines, and flambé him where he stands."

"If that fire grows out of control though, you risk destroying half of the colony," Specialist Fenton folded his arms across his chest, "Not to mention a sizable amount of our remaining fuel reserves."

The chubby cook, Musgrave, answered that rather bluntly.

"Fuck the companies and their profit margins; not much use to us when we're all dead, are they?" He gestured toward Perry. "You tell us what to rig, and we'll get it done, no problem Mr. Perry."

"Now all we need is somebody to lure it." Perry said. He frowned. Everybody was looking at him pointedly. Perry narrowed his eyes.

"…What?"

"Awfully brave of you, Mister Perry, volunteering like that." Hep grinned toothily.

The colour drained from Perry's face. He turned toward Murphy, attempting to plead his case. The Sergeant merely folded his arms across his chest, imitating the stoic Fenton.

"Well, I don't mean to be a prick or anything, Warmonger… but it _was_ you're idea. If it's any consolation, I've got the utmost faith in you, lad."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sergeant."

"Don't sound too disheartened, Dave." Murphy clapped him on the shoulder, "After all, I'm coming with you."

* * *

They sped through the streets, darting past militia checkpoints and skirting the edge of the front-line. While the sheer rush of the ATV's speed would ordinarily be a thrill, Perry was no adrenaline junkie, and cried out in alarm as they surged clean through a pitched battle between Brutes and militia. So did Hep, who had drawn the short straw and - as a result - found himself (rather unwillingly) strapped into the Mongoose's pillion seat, facing backwards toward the fearsome carnage. Lashed across his chest was an M19 SSM Rocket Launcher, a weapon which looked comically large when juxtaposed with the man's wiry physique. He hid behind it with gusto.

Miraculously, they emerged clean out the other side, unharmed if a tad traumatised. Murphy and the rest of his escort were nowhere to be found. Perry considered turning back to look for them.

"Keep driving!" Hep shrilled as a plasma bolt sizzled overhead.

Hep's next words weren't shouted. If anything, they were taut with fear.

"Choppers moving in behind."

Perry craned his neck about.

He could see two of them, arranged in an attack formation. Hep squeezed his eye shut and loosed off a rocket. It was a dismal shot, ripping into the ground before the bikes and throwing up a storm of debris, but achieving little more. The Choppers ripped through the dust cloud unscathed, cannons blazing.

Murphy's Warthog roared into view from a side street, catching one of the Brute bikes from the side. The Warthog's monstrous tow bars hammered into the rear of the vehicle and its pilot with a messy crunch. The second bike disintegrated in a swishing cloud of tinkling debris as the Murphy hosed it with the LAAG. The Irishman's voice crackled in his ear.

"We've got 'em, Warmonger, keep moving."

"Left side, on high!"

Murphy swung the LAAG to bear, shredding a trio of Brutes as they rocketed down from a nearby rooftop. Spilled fuel ignited what was left of the aliens. It spattered down over the windshield like some blended inferno. Smith whooped as the Warthog's wheels left the air temporarily, the suspension jolting as it impacted against the dirt, spraying up a plume of smoke which whipped against their faceplates, blinding them temporarily. Perry lost sight of them after that, too intent on focusing on the task at hand.

When they came around the corner, they found themselves in a clearing. Perry and Hep were just ahead, their engine idling. They were dumbstruck.

Perry wasn't sure what to do. The Scarab was gargantuan from the air, but from down here at ground level, the Type 47 was a cyclopean nightmare. Murphy's term of endearment, "Little Bastard" was the ultimate exercise in understatement.

The clearing was a loading zone for the refinery district's shipment containers, and with its perimeter of towering cargo containers and loading platforms, made for something of an unlikely arena. This was precisely the location _not_ to engage a Type-47.

"You sure this is a good idea, Dave?" Hep asked, swallowing audibly.

Perry opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Hep concurred.

Perry ran his tongue over his lips, thinking rapidly. The Type-47 hadn't noticed them yet, and was busy milling around on the far side of the clearing. It was crouched low, its belly grazing the asphalt. The walker's side bays were open, and were disgorging a series of ground troops, who in turn disappeared into the depths of the distant refineries, hunting for any semblance of resistance. Distant gunfire and human screams reported their success.

An engine rumbled up behind them. It was Murphy's warthog again. Smith was driving, with the Sergeant opting to man the rear M-41 Light Anti-Aircraft Gun (LAAG). Specialist Fenton, who had volunteered (unlike Smith, who had been conscripted) was in the passenger seat, BR-55 in hand.

Murphy depolarised his visor, studying Perry with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, Warmonger, this is your show. How do you wanna play this?" he asked.

Perry ran a hand through his hair, which by this point had to be thinning by the minute.

"We lure it west. See the gantries over there? It's a wide enough avenue for it to follow, but judging from what the readouts say, it's not so wide that we can't box it in."

"Copy that," Murphy nodded, calling up his own chart on a wrist display. "All units, this is Hibernian One, we're going to be bringing Little Bastard down the Oil-Lane Highway, aiming for Junction 04-Beta - that's just shy of the Starport District's south-eastern limit, for you marines who don't know your geography. I've marked the waypoint accordingly. Set the welcome mat, then get the hell out of there."

A warbled series of acknowledgements answered him. The commando looked back toward Perry. Murphy's visor flickered back to its usual opal blue colour. Perry saw his own fearful expression reflected back at him.

"Well then, lads," Murphy prompted, "Shall we?"

Perry took a deep breath, then gunned the throttle. They sped across the open distance, tyres humming along the smooth tarmac. Hep shouldered the launcher, squinting into the range-finder. The Scarab loomed larger and larger, distorting in the weapon's fish-eye lens.

_Range three hundred metres, two hundred metres, one hundred…_

He fired at fifty. Two rockets, close spread; almost point blank range. Hep's timing paid off. The rockets slammed into the open doorway of the Scarab's starboard loading hatch. Fire blossomed forth, spewing with it giblets of what had been a duo of Brute sentries. The unexpected attack caused the Scarab to reflexively lurch upright to its full height. A number of its guards tumbled down to the ground below, not expecting the sudden jerking movement.

Perry didn't slow down, zooming underneath the Scarab's legs and crunching one of the fallen sentries under his wheels.

"Think they've noticed us?" Hep asked, as he fumbled to get another salvo of rockets loaded into the cycling mechanism.

A green pillar of light obliterated an entire row of orbital cargo containers before them. A geyser of fire billowed up twenty metres into the air. Perry could feel the sparks spit down against his tattered flight suit, singeing his hair and eyebrows.

"Yeah, you could say that!"

He aimed for the Oil-Lane Highway, throttle set to maximum.

* * *

Aboard the bridge of the _Fearful Reckoning_, the commanding Jiralhanae officer was incandescent with rage. Internal fire-alarms bleated in the background, as the Scarab's crew fought to control the damage dealt by the Human's lucky shot. The noise only served to incense him further.

"Accelerate to full attack speed! Wipe those vermin from existence!"

The plan was working. Whether that was a good thing was entirely debateable.

The ATV was a nippy vehicle, sacrificing the Warthog's armour plating and rear-mounted weaponry for raw speed. Which was good thing, in his view, because all the armour plating in the world wouldn't save him from even a glancing hit from a Scarab's main energy weapon. That didn't make the ride any easier, however.

Indeed, he felt every single bump, jolt and rattle as the vehicle skipped over the wider dirt streets. Punctuating each of the vehicle's bounces was an answering yelp from Hep.

"Scarab!" Smith cried somewhat unnecessarily, narrowly avoiding a tumbling piece of smouldering scaffolding. They were hanging back beneath the Scarab's shadow, dancing between its clomping feet, though this wasn't by choice. The Warthog was having trouble keeping up with the Scarab as it lunged forward after the meddlesome ATV.

"You don't say." Fenton commented sourly, clinging on for dear life in the passenger's seat, "Just don't crash or we're Brute feed."

He was right too. Swinging into the avenue behind them was another squadron of _Jiral'han_ assault bikes, four in all. Murphy opened up on them, and the bikes separated, the armour piercing rounds tearing fist sized chunks from the prow of the alien vehicles. Fenton calmly primed a grenade and plopped it out onto the road beside him. One of the Brute choppers vanished.

"Nice!" Smith cheered. Suddenly a splash of plasma fire cut across the left side of the Warthog, twisting and scalding the vehicle's teal plating a molten amber. A Brute combat sled was coming up to support the Jiral'han bikers, its passengers blazing away with spike rifles. "Prowler!" Fenton hissed, rising up in his passenger seat and unloading in return. "Shit!"

Murphy didn't say anything, but responded in kind with the LAAG, flinching as a spike embedded itself in the armoured housing of the chain-cannon directly in front of him. He activated his com, sounding more irritated than anything else.

"We'll lure 'em away from you, Warmonger, but I'm not sure how long we can hold 'em. Good luck, and see you at the RV!"

With that the Warthog veered away down a side road out of sight. The host of _Jiral'han_ outriders whooped as they gave chase. Perry suddenly felt decidedly alone.

It was just them and the Scarab now.

As the Scarab's rear-mounted AA turret vomited at them, Perry swore and threw the Mongoose into a ragged skid, swiping around the corner just as the Scarab flattened a nearby utility shed with a careless stomp of its spindly foot. The plan was working. With each passing minute, the Scarab was stalking deeper into the refinery's network of gradually tightening pipelines. The rendezvous point was just out of reach.

But as the walls closed in around the Scarab, the angles also became tighter for Perry.

The ground in these side-streets wasn't paved to as high a standard as the main Oil-Lane Highway, which was a catch-all term for the main access routes between the Starport and the Southern Refineries. The ride became bumpier still. Hep began to squeal even louder: the Scarab's shoulders were clipping the side gantries, which were smashed into their component pieces with barely a moment's pause. Lethal debris began to slam down all around them. Hep unloaded another salvo of rockets for a good measure.

_They'd better be ready_, Perry thought to himself, _or this is going to be the shortest plan I've ever had._

* * *

Musgrave huffed as he stomped along the gantry above Junction 04-Beta, a dangling sling of satchel charges rattling around his neck as he hastened to distribute the bombs amongst the rest of his men. His comrades were a mixture of ODST and Murphy's Militia, which struck Musgrave as odd, considering the latter's history.

Most of the men Murphy had selected were former "Innies", or Insurrectionists, men and women who had objected to the harsh and unquestionable yolk of UNSC control. For years they had schemed as separatists, plotting Crassus' liberation from their enemies. Musgrave himself had been a member, albeit little more than a sympathiser.

The Covenant's arrival had changed things. Former enemies had become valued allies, both UNSC and Sangheili alike. Now they found themselves fighting alongside Separatists of an entirely different and - quiet literally - alien nature. This was a greater struggle: not just for political freedom, but for the freedom to exist and survive as a species.

Inspired by this, and ultimately left with little choice, they had dedicated themselves to this new cause wholeheartedly.

The militia acted quickly, applying a number of home-made bombs to key structural points along the Main southern pipeline. The commandos assisted, their refined expertise complimenting the guerrillas' admirable competence. They worked quickly, and it was a testament to their efficiency that in less than fifteen minutes, they had rigged the pipeline in accordance with the instructions laid out in Abelev's TR-23.

It was no small feet. Ten metres thick, the pipeline was the largest in the entire city. It had their entire district supply of ordinance just to cover the intended structural points.

"We're good to go," one of the ODST reported. Musgrave activated his com.

"Same here, let's bug out and wait for the signal."

The saboteurs scurried toward spring lines, fast-roping down to the ground. Musgrave, being a heavyset fellow, hit the ground somewhat roughly. Gloved hands pulled him upright and together they hustled toward the minimum safe tried to raise Murphy on the com.

"Boss-man, you there?"

"Roger, we're still-" there was a deafening blurt from the LAAG, followed by a sporadic blurt of static and disjointed words. "- there, wait for - erry's signal before-"

The line abruptly cut out. Murphy clearly had his hands full. Some of the ODST exchanged an uneasy look. Musgrave opened up the safe-guard clasp on the detonator. The bright red activation button gleamed temptingly in the sunlight. He checked his watch.

"ETA two minutes." The former chef announced, trying not to sound worried.

* * *

Torikus reclined in his grav-throne as the Scarab waded through the rubble of the Western line. For the first time this cycle, he was truly pleased. The readouts didn't lie. Having punched a hole in the Human's Western and Southern defences, the Human Citadel would soon be gutted from within: a vulnerable mollusc to be devoured with ease.

The ground beneath the Scarab was thick with a roving wave of swarming Covenant infantry, who scrabbled into the city with ravenous bloodlust. Compared to the relentless slaughter outside, the sheltered Command Hub of the Ubiquitous Triumph was relatively tranquil. He stifled a yawn.

Mopping up operations were so dreadfully tiresome. Better to keep himself entertained.

"You there…" Torikus nodded toward one of the lesser Jiralhanae manning a communications station, "How are we progressing on the northern front?"

"High-Captain Relgar has just committed to battle. We anticipate word of his victory shortly."

"Very well. Inform him that nothing less than total victory is acceptable." He motioned towards an empty trophy rack on the wall. "I believe the Black Sangheili's head shall make a fitting opening piece for what stands to be a most glorious collection."

"It shall be as you wish, High-Chieftain."

"And what of my favourite assassin?"

"He departed from the primary assault deck some twenty minutes ago, High-Chieftain. At this very moment, he is infiltrating the Human Citadel…"

* * *

With fifteen confirmed kills in as many minutes, Yik, Slayer of Men, was living up to his reputation.

It was not a particularly hard thing to do. For one, there was no shortage of humans, and for another, their combat discipline was sorely lacking. As he skulked from roof-top to roof-top, he took his time, knowing that he was ultimately at no risk. While many Kig-Yar marksmen had been deployed in the area, Yik was something of a unique professional.

Visually speaking, the most unique aspect to him was his body-mesh, a charcoal series of inter-linking body plates, laced with an off-green layer of body circuitry. While form-fitting, it also had a trio of small exhaust ports jutting out across his shoulder blades. Jump-packs were often deemed inappropriate for something as lowly as a Kig-Yar, but Yik's combat harness was well and truly deserved.

With great wealth came great privileges.

He was infamous amongst his people in his own right, a bounty hunter as notorious for his own fleet of sloops as he was for his skill with a energy lance. This campaign would be his final moment of glory, before a long and rewarding retirement from his employer's so-called Great Journey.

What also set him apart was that he worked alone. Traditionally, Kig-Yar snipers tended to flock together in strike-clutches of two or more. Not so with Yik. No, better to stay on one's own, to reap full glory for each kill. He flicked his tongue against his sharp teeth, eager to earn yet another notch to his tally.

He reached up and stroked the side of his rifle, running his finger down the scores of indentations he had racked up over the years. Most of the rifle's surface was pitted with scars, and soon he would need to graduate to a new, unblemished weapon. It would be his third.

Yik was picking his way across the worn roof of what had once been a corrugated iron industrial shed. Judging from his navigational chart, he was somewhere within the south-western boundaries of the city. All around him, Jiralhanae forces were pressed in street-to-street fighting with their Human opponents, who had began to frustrate the Loyalists through an endless series of ambushes, flanking manoeuvres and counter-charges. If the High-Chieftain thought that this battle would be over in short order, then he was sorely mistaken.

It irked Yik. Yes, it was amusing to practise on the Humans, but that wasn't what he was being paid for. No, his reward - subject to contract/contract denied - was for the Sangheili ship-master. So far, he had yet to see a single live Sangheili, let alone their leader. The greater struggle was only slowing him down.

Which meant only one thing. He would have to advance things himself. He nuzzled his beak against the side of his rifle, clicking his ocular scope into place. The midday sun was bathed in a cool silver and purple hue. Bright green outlines denoted potential targets.

He spied a bunker of Humans clustered on a roof-top across the far side of the intersection. They were local militia, to his knowledge, but they were enacting a particularly spirited defence. It was almost admirable, considering they were outnumbered two to one. While the Human co-ordinating them was not particularly heroic looking, but he seemed to have a keen eye for directing the firepower of his compatriots, who applied their mounted machine guns with remarkable efficiency. Something of an under-dog himself, in respect to Covenant society, the Kig-Yar almost empathised with them.

"Oh well." Yik snickered.

With the twitch of his claw, a single shot removed most of the Human's head. It happened so fast, his comrades didn't notice for almost a minute. When they did, panic set in. Jiralhanae and Unggoy assaulters swarmed over them in moments, taking advantage of the momentary confusion. With yet another single shot, Yig had resolved a fire fight which had been raging on for close to two hours. This was the proper way to do war, he decided. It was neater, more efficient.

Yik snapped the ocular scope up, dusting himself off and skulking toward the centre of the Human Citadel. There was work to be done.

There was glory to be won.

* * *

Perry could see the Southern Pipeline dead ahead.

It straddled the avenue, bathing most of the street beneath it in its thick shadow. Such was the scale of the support structure that the Scarab would be able to pass clean underneath without even having to adjust its height. That said, the Scarab was having a tough time keeping pace, given that its legs had to occasionally rip through any girders which came within the boundary of its strides. The sound was deafening as it ploughed on through, a constant avalanche of banging metal resounding throughout the entire area.

The ATV passed clear of the Pipeline's shadow. He slewed to a halt. Hep sat up in his seat, rocket launcher primed.

The Scarab seemed surprised at the unexpected stop. It gloated above them, oblivious to the massive shadow it stood beneath. Its single baleful eye-cannon began to glow as it powered up.

"Now or never!" Perry cried, gunning the throttle as he prepared to move off.

Down the street, Musgrave stabbed the fire switch with his thumb. Nothing happened. Swearing, he stabbed it twice more.

That did it.

The charges detonated, collapsing most of the support structure beneath the pipeline.

Unable to sustain the weight, the rest of the superstructure began to whine with a deafening groan of strained metal. With an inevitable ear-splitting shriek, the Southern Pipeline collapsed free, slicing down neatly across the Scarab's rear-spine, driving its rear legs to the ground. Unprocessed fuel, the lifeblood of Crassus, spilled out across the Scarab's hull, soaking it thoroughly. As the AA turret's housing folded upon itself, it scrunched up with a brilliant spark of unleashed plasma. The spark touched off the released fuel line. The spark became a flame.

A curtain of fire was thrown up, blinding them.

Then the rest of the refinery collapsed. The domino effect was catastrophic. Gantries, secondary pipelines, girders and joists all toppled down across the Scarab, burying it under a tidal wave of descending metal. The fire itself raced across the entire district, consuming everything: humans and Covenant alike. A smothering wall of dust rushed outward, choking Perry and filling his eyes with dirt. As it cleared, and the pilot blinked away tears, his mouth fell open in shock.

The Scarab was still moving. Its rear half had been all but sheered away, but the front half of the beast was still stalking forward on its front legs. Its front eye glowed an angry red. Whiffs of venting plasma curled up the cannon's mouth, like smoke from a dragon's nostrils. The entire vehicle was a livid inferno. But it was still coming.

"You've got to be shitting me." Perry gaped in disbelief.

The Scarab made two steps, three, then its legs gave out. It splayed to the ground, collapsing lifelessly on its belly. The angry red glow faded out. Soon the only sound was the roaring of the inferno, as the smoke boiled into the sky. The fire would rage unabated for another week, spreading out to consume much of the eastern part of the city.

"That's better." Hep approved nonchalantly.

There was a clatter of footsteps behind them. It was the saboteurs, who seemed simultaneously pleased and shell-shocked by their own efforts. The sheer devastation wrought by Perry's plan came as something of a shock. One of the ODST, Sweeney, stepped forward and peeled off his helmet. The look of concern in his face reminded Perry instantly.

"Oh no… Murphy."

They all turned toward the towering inferno. Nothing could survive in that.

Wordlessly, they all saluted.

They were still saluting when a Warthog burst forth from the flames, using the arched back of the gutted Scarab as an impromptu launching ramp. Its wheels were alight and its passengers stained black with soot. The LAAG had melted from the heat. They were on fire in several places, but the flame retardant body armour had done its job admirably.

Fenton flung himself from the passenger seat, swatting at the flames which crawled over his back. Murphy's boots were smouldering, and he stamped about in a mad jig, sweating and cursing as he attempted to put them out once and for all. It was all tremendously undignified. Smith, for his part, was glued to the steering wheel, completely and utterly numbed by shell-shock.

Murphy looked up to see them all still saluting, incredulous.

"Don't just salute me, you shower of gobshites; get over here and help me put Fenton out!"

* * *

Zerat pressed himself deep into the shadows, waiting for the Jiralhanae hunting pack to pass. The Western Lines had fallen back so rapidly he'd found himself cut off, and was faced with having to creep his way back toward where the Humans had rallied. Even now, after a full hour of crawling through the shadows from alleyway to side-lane, he was still some time away from the frontlines. His optic camouflage had saved his skin more times than he could count, but he knew the Loyalist ground troops weren't the real threat.

No, they were too enflamed by bloodlust to notice him. It was the Kig-Yar that held his concern. They were the ones observant enough to notice him, and he had to neutralise them accordingly. Short on ammo and surrounded by enemies on all sides, the Sangheili Spec Op had little choice but to hunt down the enemy snipers relentlessly. He had employed his talent to the full, and already two fresh beam-rifles were sheathed across his back, ready to be used.

Not that it was particularly hard for a Sangheili specialist to slay them. While talented marksmen, they were dismal snipers from a concealment standpoint. The optical scopes Kig-Yar infiltrators relied upon proved to be their collective downfall, marking out the diminutive mercenaries' locations like a veritable bulls-eye on a youngling training range. All he had to do was line up the twinkling purple light, control his breathing, and then fire. They might as well have inscribed a "Kill Me" rune across their foreheads.

Case in point, this unwitting specimen he had in his sights. One of a threesome, they had scaled the viewing tower of a what had once been an upscale apartment tower. Well, upscale by Human standards on Crassus, undoubtedly. Most of the buildings glass had long since been blown away, shards of it embedding themselves in the walls and scattering across the floors, where it crunched underfoot. It was a predictable perch, and one so typically favoured by Kig-Yar sharp-shooters. They lurked around on the top observation deck, their winking ocular scopes barely pin-pricks at such great range. Even by Zerat's exacting standards, it was a difficult shot.

No matter.

Zerat caressed the trigger. With a sudden jerk the unwary Kig-Yar sniper clutched at its throat, gurgling. Zerat frowned. The energy lance had cauterised the wound shut. Its hunting partners hissed, looking about frantically for their unseen assailant. Zerat wortled to himself, bemused at their reaction, and settled into the smooth contours of his beam rifle once more. He chided himself softly. For the first time since the start of the conflict, he had missed: he'd been aiming for the creature's eye-scope.

He put a second round through the eye-scope of the choking Kig-Yar for a good measure. There. That was much better. Zerat was toying with them by this point, and though it amused him greatly, there was too much to be done. Too many of the Prophets' dogs to kill. His third and fourth shots did likewise to the dead creature's comrades. That was the skill to it. Not the kills themselves; those were easy.

No, punishing them for their stupidity. That was the real sport of it.

He lowered the rifle, allowing its cooling vents to hiss and sizzle as he withdrew, making for friendly lines. His Shipmaster would have need of his skills, now more so than ever.

* * *

Zerat's assessment had not been wrong. The situation teetered on a knife's edge, and could tip either way at a moment's notice. Though the Humans had successfully stalled the southern advance, the extremity of their actions had doomed almost half of the city. The roaring flames would scour much of the colony's southern and eastern lands, spreading with such ferocity that eventually Administrator Jennings ordered the water mains opened, in an attempt to quench the blaze.

The battle would progress little over the next day and night, as the Covenant licked its wounds and attempted to regroup its forces. Many of the skirmishes reported then, though notable for their tales of courage, heroism and tragedy, ultimately yielded little strategic influence on the conflict as a whole. Doubtless, such tales are covered in other works.

It was sufficient, then, to say that both sides found themselves at an impasse. The Loyalists seized many areas, only to lose many more as the Humans ruthlessly used their intimate knowledge of the city's layout against them. Torikus, given pause from the loss of yet another Scarab, kept a steady rein on his forces, drawing them back before they could fall into any further traps. Thinking they held the upper hand, the Humans over-extended themselves, and found themselves exposed to the Covenant's superior airpower. Accordingly, they too withdrew to the safety of their remaining strong-points, on the orders of a frustrated Major Abelev. Both sides took a break from the fighting on the fourth night, content to leave the bloodshed for the morning of the fifth day.

This stalemate would not last, however. As the fire spread, the ever expanding blaze would only serve to fan the flames of war further, as both sides scrambled toward the areas of the city left untouched by the devastating inferno. It is perhaps because of this that the final two days became known as some of the most ferocious and horrific days in the entire campaign.

Those who survived would remember them for the rest of their dying days.

* * *

Yik stumbled across the bodies some time later, when the sun was shrinking and the shadows were growing. He had spied the perch earlier, and dismissed it instantly. Though it offered a clear field of fire, it was far too exposed. Far too predictable.

Only when he heard the Kig-Yar's panicked cries over the Battle Net did he return there himself.

He waited twenty minutes, as a precaution, before rocketing up to the building's second floor. He took the sheltered stair-case from there, not wishing to draw any attention. Especially if what he expected was true.

He found the three of them on the observation deck. Four shots, three kills from the looks of it. Not bad, considering the building's distance relative to any would-be sniper perches, although he knew that he personally would have done better. As Yik turned the faces of his sprawled kin upward, he reassessed his opinion immediately.

Each of their ocular scopes had been drilled through, quite thoroughly.

The mark of an expert, and something of a calling card to boot. Yik felt an uneasy thrill course through his veins. He quickly reached up and quenched the light of his own eye-scope. This Separatist had talent. His spines twitched in excitement.

Suddenly there was far more to it than simple rewards. In accordance with Kig-Yar mercenary custom, he relieved the three bodies of any currency their might have been carrying, before seating himself at the foot of the stairs.

Yik began toying with the settings of his suit's com-relay. Adjusting the settings, fine-tuning it. After a moment, the gruff tones of battle-pumped Sangheili flowed from the external speaker. Satisfied, he scooped up his rifle, and rose to his feet. He was positively giddy as he rushed down the stair-case.

The Slayer of Men had a plan, and by the Prophets that would prove a dangerous thing indeed.


	28. Day Five: Courage and Treachery

"_People of Crassus, rise up! Stand tall, and throw free the shackles of your oppressors!"_

- unpublished Insurrectionist pamphlet, dated c.2535

* * *

The fifth day was more of the same. A phrase that might have sounded tedious, to anyone reading the account from afar, safe in an armchair and insulated from the stark realities of history. But to those on the ground, more of the same was a desperate scramble for survival, an existence of discomfort and pain, misery and filth.

Not to mention constant danger. As the war ground onward, late into the afternoon, and the Covenant advanced deeper into the Human habitation areas, things began to deteriorate quite rapidly indeed. To the north, Covenant forces assembled themselves for yet another push on the stubborn Northern Gate. This time it would be headed up by _Jiral'ja_ commandos, who were determined to drive their enemies from a position that should have rightly fallen days ago.

The rest of the city fared little better.

Crassus' western quarter, in the true spirit of Crassian pragmatism, had been given the title of Habitation Zone. Though its name was as dry as the climate, the buildings themselves were an eclectic mix of both the utilitarian and the sophisticated. Now, five days into the siege, this observation was ultimately inconsequential. What matter was its strategic value, a value borne from one simple fact: it was home to some of the tallest buildings in the entire city.

A trio of towering buildings rose up from amidst the white-washed concrete low-rises. Their architecture was robust and functional, designed with the arid climate in mind; because their height prevented the Curtain Wall from shielding them from the numerous sand storms, their windows were narrow and occasionally spaced. Not that many of them were still intact, however. Relentless shelling had taken its toll, and the buildings' cladding - once a proud and robust yellow, had been scalded a greasy black by plasma fire. These were the Three Steeples - once proud, now broken; headstones looming over a doomed city.

At the base of the Three Steeples, the narrow streets would sporadically widen to accommodate necessary transport routes and markets for the surrounding populace. These became areas of more direct conflict, as stubborn defenders met their enemy face to face in open field, commandeering the old kiosks and shop stalls to serve as impromptu bunkers and redoubts.

Over all of this presided the menacing Jiralhanae Scarab, the _Ubiquitous Triumph_. It stomped about, blasting a path through bricks and stone, mortar and flesh. Its hull was scorched from a thousand impacts as a defiant wave of rocket after rocket slapped up into its underbelly. The beast weathered the blasts without a second thought,

shrugging them off as an elephant might a bothersome fly.

Its attention was wholly occupied by the Three Steeples, where several particularly enterprising (not to mention stubborn) Humans had managed to haul a series of self-propelled guns.

Overhead, Banshees howled by, flitting over the deluge of plasma pouring forth from the Scarab's cannons. Fuel rod blasts and showers of debris marked their passing.

On street level, the Habitation Zone was host to a frenzied struggle. One of the most active sectors of the battlefield, the invaders were being channelled into the residential areas of the city by the raging firestorm on one side, and the impassable Northern Gate on the other. To the Covenant, the West was perceived as the most direct route into the city, and Torikus had redirected the bulk of his forces accordingly. Defenders on the Eastern Gate watched in amazement as their attackers suddenly withdrew without the merest hint of warning, melting away into the scorched ruins of the Outer Trenches.

Those loyal to the Path would find an easier means of breaching the Citadel.

Or so they thought. Their expectations were shattered once they actually entered the Habitation Zone. The bodies of their allies preceded them. What began as an easily navigated route straight into the heart of the city became a stalking ground for a relentless and shifting insurgency. Abelev's forces greeted the Covenant with strong point after strong point. Tactical Response 23 was in full effect. The Loyalist invasion choked to a halt, held up in the bulky network of fortified street blocks and claustrophobic alleyways.

That was not to say the humans were not without their own problems. Those militia forces not gripped up in combat were hastening to accommodate the influx of southern refugees, whilst at the same time preparing themselves for the inevitable wave of desperate Brutes chasing at their heels. The price of each ambush sprung was too great; yes, they had the element of surprise on their side, but ultimately the militia fighters were incapable of lasting in sustained combat against physiologically superior opponents. Though prone to being ambushed, a pack of Brutes was still more than enough to crush a squad of barely-trained militia.

The results showed. Street by street, inch by inch, the battle lines of which were drifting inexorably from the Habitation Zone toward the central Starport.

The Starport was the key. If it fell, there would be a total and definitive collapse of coordination across the Separatist line. While the north and east were continuing to endure the external invasion, the Habitation Zone teetered on the precipice throughout the entire afternoon, right through to nightfall. By 12:15 on November 22nd 2552, Abelev's final order to ground was given: all units were instructed to hold their ground, and deny the enemy using any means necessary.

By then, the time for hit and fade attacks was over. The enemy were inside now, and the only means of survival was to meet steel with steel, to repay their allies casualties with casualties of their own.

David Perry, thirty two years old and haggard from fatigue, thought he'd seen it all by the beginning of the fifth day. As his blistered feet slapped against the dirt, driving him out of the refineries and out toward the looming tenements of the Habitation Zone ahead, he was already fancying himself as an able ground-pounder. A hardened veteran.

If only that were the case. Today, he would learn something new.

Today he would learn the horrors of urban warfare.

* * *

Abelev's voice was a monotone. Bereft of emotion, drained of any semblance of personality. It was a voice borne from pure and total exhaustion, and as he hunched in his command chair, Administrator Jennings marvelled at the man's steely determination to win.

"Units A-12 through to A-16" Abelev said, listlessly, "Move south to Aerie Junction; instructions are relayed on your data pad. Watch for snipers in the towers, boys."

He switched channels. A new situation, a new group of scared rookies. Get them moving, get them focused. Get them fighting, then repeat the process. Switch again.

Coffee was useless. He'd drank it all anyway. And not just the coffee; bottles of whiskey, no longer hidden by any pretence of concealment, lay scattered around by his feet, vying for floor space amongst the carpet of despatch sheets which had steadily built up over the previous week.

It was a testament to his fatigue that the alcohol didn't even seem to faze him. He was beyond it now, as he was beyond ordinary boundaries of human endurance. For five days straight, he had been perched in the height of the Communications Tower, ignoring air-strikes and ever-encroaching Covenant Artillery. For five days, he had micro-managed every single fire-fight breaking out across Horizon's streets, boulevards and industrial areas, denying the enemy through a consistent stream of orders and recommendations.

For five days, he had not slept.

It was taking its toll. His eyes bulged; deep purple veins traced their way beneath his eyelids, and his skin was devoid of colour of any kind.

Despite this, even after all this strain, his tactical surety was unquestionable. He would tap into the local band, assess the situation report from the officer in charge, call up the local plans, and - having established the approximate strength of the enemy - coordinate an effective strategy. His manner of speech was tight, his delivery succinct. He gave his orders and immediately switched channels, where the process would begin anew. Abelev offered few words of encouragement as he did so: there simply wasn't enough time.

Jennings, having little to do now that all non-combatants were hidden away in shelters beneath the city, had stayed with him, helping him call up charts when he needed them, fetching a drink when he his voice began to croak. Sarah never left her side.

Amanda did not resent becoming Abelev's attendant. Truthfully, there was nobody else capable of commanding the UNSC forces, and Amanda would not have wished the position on anybody.

Nobody should have to command so many people to their deaths. There was no estimating the total number of casualties, given the amount of confusion occurring throughout the border areas of the city. It was true that there were many pockets of colonists left toward the outer rim, but for planning purposes UNSC command had been forced to write off entire divisions as MIA. Following the destruction of the Curtain Wall, estimated killed-in-action lists began to pour in.

That was when the whiskey really began to disappear.

Abelev suddenly fell quiet in his chair. His head had lolled forward, and he was dozing off, a glop of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. Amanda could hear the tinny cries of the panic coming from the com-set from where she was sitting across the room. She walked over and, feeling immensely guilty, gave him a little shake.

"Major, they need you." she urged softly.

No response. He may as well have been in a coma. Another shake, this time more insistent. _Boy do I feel like the Queen Bitch doing this_, Amanda thought. She raised her voice, loud and authoritative."Major Abelev, there's a war going on. I order you to wake up"

Abelev coughed, swiping a hand across his eyes and shook himself. Her heart went out to the man: his eyes were raw, and looked as though they were set to fall out of his head at any minute.

"Sorry…" he mumbled.

"Is there anything you need, Major?" Amanda asked. Her brow was wrinkled with worry. He really didn't seem to look so good.

"Water… I could use some water." Abelev mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward his face. "For my eyes."

"I'll be right back." Amanda promised.

She motioned for Sarah to follow her, who trotted along obediently. Abelev began ordering the militia once more, albeit groggily. The second the administrator and her daughter had left the room, Abelev abruptly straightened up in his chair, sparing a glance toward where they had departed.

Good, they were gone.

His hand had been trembling all morning. He had hidden it well, keeping it low by his side, occupying it by drumming his fingers repeatedly against the desk. Passing it off as a nervous tick. The shakes were back, and getting stronger all the time. He knew he should stop, but there was no choice.

It was him or the colony.

He fished a hand into the folds of his flak jacket. The medical syringe was low on supply, but he needed the adrenaline shot to keep functioning. It was his last dosage. Definitely over the recommended intake too. Battle stimulants, intended for long range night patrols; their use was frowned upon by several civilian medical authorities, but boy did they give results. Recommended maximum dosage was two within a forty eight hour period. This would be his fifth.

If the Administrator knew what he was doing, she would have stripped him of command days ago. She would have been quite within her rights to do so too, seeing as the militia were ostensibly her soldiers, not his, and even ONI had published reports on the adverse effect battle-stims had on peoples' judgement. He pushed the injector up against his neck, his finger hovering over the activation stud. He hesitated.

If he did another shot, he'd probably do irreversibly harm to himself in the long run. Probably destroy his own nervous system, maybe even kill him outright.

More panicked cries warbled up from the com unit.

"Fuck it."

He depressed the switch. Liquid fuel pumped through his veins, energising him. He snatched up his headset, and began tersely spitting out order after order. All the while, both of his hands began to tremble violently. He hunched forward, masking it by rubbing his hands together as he spoke.

It did the trick. When Amanda and Sarah returned, two minutes later, they never even noticed the spent medical injector, half-hidden beneath yet another casualty despatch paper.

* * *

The air raids had ceased by the end of the third day, off-put by a notable lack of success. Though they had plastered the ruins of the Northern Gate time and time again, little had come of it. The outcome was always the same: the Loyalists air corps would retire, having declared the area clear, only to later receive word that ground forces would amble into an area infested with waiting enemies. Though inspection sweeps were requested by Jiralhanae officers on the ground during the fourth and fifth days, reports still came back as being negative: there were no Humans or Sangheili in that area.

But if that were true, what was doing all the killing?

Relgar's boots hit the ground at the same time, sinking deep into the broiled muck. His knees bent to absorb the shock of the landing. He raised his Ripper, panning it left to right. All around him, _Jiral'ja _troopers landed simultaneously and spread out, weapons primed.

It was clear. The air was suffused with a cloying atmosphere of dust and smoke, the soot-tinged after echo of the most recent strafing run, and the Jiralhanae warriors were forced to activate their low-light filters to compensate. The air tingled with static electricity. Relgar's fur stood on end. Visibility was low.

That did not bother them. In truth, there was little to see.

The title of Northern Gate was little more than a formality now. What had once been an impassive wall was now charred ash-land, a twisted nightscape of tousled limbs and sunken craters. Tellingly, most of the bodies were Covenant Loyalists. The _Jiral'ja _strode deeper into the rim of the Northern Crater, picking their way carefully across the broken and desolate terrain. The outline of Malwrekus' Scarab sprawled ahead, menacingly still on the horizon. Its rear turret trailed limply down by its side. The remaining sections of the Curtain Wall bracketed it, though most of its armour plating had been peeled away, revealing gnarled joists and plasma-gnawed support-beams.

Nobody spoke at first. To do so would be an unforgivable breach of discipline. Even so, glances were exchanged. It was too quiet. The Jiral'ja crept forward, hunched in a battle stance, playing their weapons out ahead of them. The rear feet of the Unquestionable Truth were just ahead now, blending with the dirt and stone and bodies which surrounded it. It was hard to believe the Scarab had fallen less than a week ago: it looked as though it had been buried there for centuries. Relgar checked in with Brask, his second in command. The junior Jiral'ja shook his head.

Still nothing.

The first rifle shot was as deafening as it was untraceable. A warrior to Brask's side fell to his knees, a thin fizzle of blood hissing out of a puncture wound in his thickset neck. He raised a hand to staunch the flow, before keeling over dead.

"Take cover!" Brask bellowed.

The silent wreck of the Scarab ahead blazed to life. A wall of bullets chopped down upon them, stabbing shields, pinking off armour and cutting flesh.

There was no time. No time to duck, no time to shoot; no time to even blink.

Then they came from below. Demons, hateful with murder-lust. In that instant, Relgar knew what had happened. The Humans and Sangheili had bided their time, burrowing deep into the displaced silt and ruined top-spoil, weathering the storm of Covenant air-strikes. Patiently waiting for their turn to strike back.

And strike they did. They erupted from the ground beneath them, earth and pebbles streaming from them in a tinkling shower. Now the Separatists were unveiled; behind them, amongst them, between them. All around them. They roared and opened fire at point blank range, blasting the stricken Jiral'ja off their feet, pouncing on them and tearing them to pieces.

Phantoms, there was no other word to describe them. Swathed in filthy rags, the Humans were barely distinguishable from the ground which bore them. Their white eyes bulged menacingly, unblinking with an animalistic hatred. Reluctant to clip one of their own, the Jiral'ja's return fire was hesitant, staggered and sporadic. The Humans displayed no such hesitation, unloading and reloading into the midst of the Brutes they hated so very much. Within seconds, one third of Relgar's command pack were dead.

He would not be taken so easily.

"Return fire!" Relgar ordered, breaking one Human's neck with a swing of his gauntlet and vaporising another with a blurt of Ripper fire. "In the name of the Prophets return fire!"

The Jiral'ja responded as one, opening up with tight bursts of firepower. It was hard to hit anything in the confusion, so well concealed were the Humans, that soon they forwent their weapons in favour of lashing into them with their own two claws. The ambush that became a firefight became a mob, a savage brawl that harkened back to the pre-Covenant days of Relgar's people. It was combat devolved, and as Relgar hollered into the Battle Net for reinforcements, he realised it was a brawl they were losing.

"We need reinforcements!" Relgar bellowed, switching from his Ripper to his carbine. "Jiral'ja to all support clutches; forward advance!"

"Drive forward, push through!" Brask screamed, trying to have his voice heard over the chaos. A trio of bullets stitched across his breastplate, blasting him off his feet. Shields fizzling, he rolled back upright, his carbine spitting.

In the distance, ripping into his pack with gleeful abandon, Relgar saw a nightmarish thing.

The Black Sangheili, tall and malevolent. It danced through his warriors as they raced up the slope to where the Scarab's underbelly met the rim of the crater. The Black Sangheili met them there, fighting three at a time.

To call it a fair fight would be to do the Sangheili's skill a grave disservice. Limbs snapped, fangs shattered and blood spurted. Dead Jiral'ja flopped back down the incline just as quickly as they charged up, hair burnt and skin blackened. The Sangheili, flanked by six of his best warriors, held their heads high, cheating and dealing death in the face of an unending tide of enemies. To the Brute's amazement, they were laughing.

Relgar cast a glance over his shoulder. The view behind him was more encouraging.

The ridgeline swarmed with friendly reinforcements. His last command had called in everything; the entire remaining Northern battle group was descending on their position. They poured in from the Outer Trenches like soup into a bowl, a churning sea of Loyalist ground troops. So thick was their numbers that the Jiral'ja captain soon found it difficult to pick his own Jiral'ja apart from the seething mass. Only the bio-spoors registered in his helmet's display made sense of it all.

Most of the surviving Human ambushers had already pulled back to the safety of their heretical allies. Those that were too slow simply vanished, swallowed up by the tide of Covenant warriors. Relgar's spirits lifted; it was only a matter of time before the remaining Separatists were overwhelmed.

That meant Relgar only had a short time to claim his victory. Machine gun turrets mounted throughout the Scarab's hull continued to open up on the crowd below, cutting into the wall of Covenant reinforcements as they charged to assist the beleaguered _Jiral'ja_. Loyalists fell in droves. His rage renewed, Relgar cut through the melee like a scythe, occasionally slamming his own warriors out of the way, such was his bloodlust. Far ahead, the Black Sangheili fought on, heedless of its impending doom.

Relgar shoved his way through the press, battling his way toward the thing he hated most.

Then he saw them, rising up onto the top of the Scarab's hull, their shields gouging into the deck plating as they pulled themselves into view. A Mgalekgolo pair, assault cannons charged and ready to fire. Panic seized the Loyalist tide, as they realised they had charged headlong into the Mgalekgolo's range.

"Retreat!" one of the Unggoy managed to cry out.

The Mgalekgolo fired. Long, scything beams of energy slashed out into the press, atomising the Loyalists in droves. Relgar ignited his jump back on reflex, carrying himself free of the crowd. Just in time too; his shield systems prickled his fur as the beam cut through the air centimetres beneath his feet. The rest of the Jiral'ja took to the sky, rocketing away from the devastation. Denied similar technology, the rest of the Loyalists had to turn and flee on foot, or stand and perish.

The Hunters switched their weapons over to fire incandescent orbs of wrath, which blew chunks out of the wall of fleeing bodies. The flow of Loyalists receded from the Northern Gate like a low tide, the survivors hobbling back to the refuge of the Outer Trenches.

For one more day, the Northern Gate would hold.

As Relgar flew away from the massacre, he shook with both fury and shame. Retreat was anathema to him, but the commander in him knew that to charge an elevated position, particularly one stationed with Mgalekgolo, would have been suicidal. Half of his command had been killed by the abortive assault, and the Brute had no intention of letting the rest of them be expended so wastefully.

Brask's voice cut in over the Battle Net. His voice was haggard and weary.

"Captain, High-Chieftain Torikus demands an update on our progress."

Relgar's own was quiet and fierce, imbued with determination.

"Tell him that the Humans continue to hold, but by the faith of the Prophets - and the blood of my own kin - the Black Sangheili shall die."

Hearing his own words renewed his determination. Tonight they would rest, and tomorrow they would try again. Relgar landed in what had once been a Human field station. Only scattered bones occupied this place now. The sight gave him hope.

Relgar swore to himself that by this time tomorrow, the Northern Gate would meet a similar fate.

* * *

Vtan ducked back behind the pillar as a blizzard of spikes impaled themselves deep into the chipped remains of a concrete pillar. He leaned out for a moment to hurl a plasma grenade, before taking cover once more. More spikes chased him back into hiding.

Though his every instinct had urged him to head north, to assist Rukth with the struggle at the Northern Gate, his strategic reasoning had carried him in the opposite direction. The southern wall had fallen, and leadership was needed. Unfortunately, he arrived too late. His attempts to rally the ailing southern line had been set-back by the unexpected detonation of the main processing refinery. Now the line was effectively lost to both sides, and the Shipmaster found himself simply trying survive, let alone pull a victory from this engagement.

Another barrage of plasma fire chopped into the pillar. Vtan's shields fizzled from the backwash of plasma fire. They were getting closer.

He had spent the morning trying to regroup his remaining Sangheili, but they were few and far between, the majority having already given their lives on the frontlines. That said, some still lived. The display runes depicted by his combat harness indicated that there were friendly Sangheili still alive in this sector. All he had to do was get to the far end of the street.

Were it so easy. The Shipmaster had stumbled headlong into a gaggle of Loyalist skirmishers, all of whom were initially fleeing for their lives, but now seemed dead set on claiming his hide. Even now, as the smoke and flames closed in, they stood their ground, keeping the Sangheili commander pinned. His only means of retaliation was a primitive Human assault rifle, scavenged from the wreckage of a ransacked cargo truck.

It was a battered gun, prone to jamming and woefully inaccurate. Vtan soon found that it served little purpose other than to keep the Loyalist Unggoys' heads down. Once they decided to charge him, or flush him out with grenades, it was over.

That in mind, he popped out of cover, spraying another burst. Luck was on his side, and one of the midgets toppled over, its luminous brain matter spilling out across the dirt. Indignant, the Brute barked a challenge and swept a paw forward. Its next order was as unwelcome as it was anticipated.

"Charge!"

"Disconcerting." Vtan remarked absently, dropping the useless assault rifle and priming his energy sword. He would have to wait for them to close ground before dispatching them.

And so he waited. After a full minute, he was still waiting. He narrowed his eyes, then peeked out.

The Brute was dead. Its Unngoy charges had fled, shrieking and flapping.

Vtan stepped out into the street. Energy sword humming in the gloomy smoke, he advanced cautiously. The Shipmaster spied the hole in the Jiralhanae's head, recognising the handiwork of one of his own.

Zerat shimmered into view before him.

"Zerat." Vtan nodded a greeting.

"Shipmaster." Zerat bowed his head in return. "I did not expect to find you here."

"Nor I, truth be told. I was hoping to link up with our remaining Brothers, but I found myself alone and outnumbered. The fire… it disorientates me."

"I have had the same problem, Shipmaster," Zerat motioned toward the west. "Come, Shipmaster, this way. I have already rallied a few of our number from the Western line. They await us in a structure not far from here."

The Sniper and the Shipmaster set off without hesitation, leaving the flames and devastation behind them.

* * *

The western part of the city was different to the rest of Horizon. Though most of it was utilitarian and simplistic in its design, the west lacked the overt industrial feel of Crassus' only settlement. Here, there was the occasional wide boulevard and market, which were lined with tall buildings, some six or seven storeys high. It was where the bulk of the Humans had lived, and toiled and sweated during their long years on Crassus.

Now it was a war-zone.

The Humans had a number of advantages in this environment. Firstly, they knew the terrain. Unlike the relatively unfamiliar labyrinth of the city's external defences, the winding streets of Horizon was their home. They knew the lay of the land intimately, and used this knowledge to punish the Jiralhanae host severely.

Several times Covenant forces would move to assault a fortified militia position, only to be ambushed and counter-assaulted from six different directions at once. By the time the Brutes had hastened reinforcements in to crush this opposition, they would arrive too late, the Humans having already melted away into the fiendish maze beyond.

Multi-storey office blocks became fortresses in their own right, the Brutes struggling to move in under the commanding fields of fire presented by these once-proud pillars of commerce. Only concerted air-strikes were proving effective at digging the Separatists from their hideouts, but even then the results lacked a definitive sense of victory. It was an un-winnable quagmire, an infestation.

No matter how many Humans they rooted out and killed, there was always more.

As the Covenant advance delved its way into deeper the city, like the claw of some monstrous creature, the Human forces would reach out and seize it by the fingertips, before severing it at the wrist. A number of Jiralhanae quickly found themselves pinned down and surrounded by their elusive prey. Only a select few of them would manage to avoid being overwhelmed, their survival attributed to their sheer strength, technological superiority, and the actions of their more specialised allies.

Yik was one such specialist. He had spent the past night making incisive cuts into the Human command structure, dismantling it from the top like a particularly stubborn Hydra. Body language; that was how he read it. Quiet observation, careful consideration, and - then - violent retaliation: that was the only means of dealing with the Humans. He would identify the leader of the Human squads, and remove them from the equation. They had denied the Covenant's might too long to be offered anything less than the most ruthless savagery. It was the only language they understood.

But Yik was no savage. No, to him this was clinical warfare, effected with surgical precision.

He had lodged himself between the pipes of a building's support foundations. What the structure had once been would forever remain a mystery to him, as it had been shelled into a tousled clump of its own component materials, but the jagged rubble effectively broke up his silhouette enough to afford him decent cover. Indeed, the only part of him that was truly visible was the snub-tip of his beam rifle, impossible to discern from the surrounding debris. He snuggled into his perch, his naked eye pressed against the rifle's in-built scope.

He would not risk discovery by activating his eye-scope.

The air was thick with gun-smoke and dust, as the dry winds of Crassus shrieked through the gaps where towering silver-shod buildings had once stood. While the western section of the city had eluded the snarling tendrils of the southern inferno so far, it had not weathered the storm of high-impact Covenant artillery quite as gracefully. Right now, he was operating in his capacity as a spotter. He would paint Human positions in his cross-hairs, methodically jotting their positions down onto the chart fastened to his wrist. In response, Covenant air-strikes and transport drogues would drone in, disgorging plentiful amounts of bombardment and assault troops in equal measure.

Stubborn to the last, the Humans held their ground, digging in deep whenever the Banshees swooped past, and retorting in earnest once Loyalist warriors poured from the shimmering Grav Lifts which carried them. In the distance a Phantom trailed listlessly, its starboard flank erupting in a series of blinding flashes and searing explosions. Yik chuckled as he noticed a Jiralhanae warrior clinging onto the side of the ship for dear life. That was no way to die.

By contrast, his immediate kill zone was distinctly quieter.

The bazaar ahead of him had formerly been a bustling centre of commerce, one of the lifelines of this city's inhabitants. Traders had come here from all across the Human Citadel, no doubt to profit in the open space and wide avenues. All across the plaza, abandoned tarps and cloth tents had been trampled into the dirt, and now only the occasional forlorn body marked the fact that once - long ago - Humans had ruled this part of the city.

The fighting had overtaken this area some time ago. Covenant assault forces had sped across it half an hour earlier, eager to join battle with the Heretics to the north. None had returned alive, swallowed up by the lurking warren of ambushers and booby traps ahead. Yik, a consummate survivalist, had been all too happy to let them go on ahead. Better to let them spring the traps, so that his own progress might be unimpeded later on.

Right now, that progress would rely on his own ability to wait. Something he was good at.

Yik had taken every precaution. The sun was at his back, and would be for most of the day. He had assessed the wind, gauging it by the torn sections of cloth and tarp which hung limply from the remains of exposed steel joists nearby, many of which had speared themselves into the dirt, embedded like mighty knives in a circus target.

The occasional gust would cause them to flap in a certain direction, and Yik observed carefully. Knowing the wind was key. It was important to be down-wind of the Sangheili. Natural hunters in their own right, their senses were sharp, and Yik's own scent would perhaps be his greatest give-away.

The Separatist Battle Net warbled in his ear once more. Good, he was in the right place.

Yik had always made a point of studying the intricacies of his kindred races. It was essential, if one hoped to eke out an existence as a lower borne caste member of the Covenant. He knew the Sangheili mindset well, having hunted them for the Jiralhanae before.

It was easy to predict where they were going to go, what they were going to do. Their sense of fraternity was their own downfall; in the unlikely event of a likely defeat, Sangheili tended to band together. Five days into a siege like this, it was highly likely that the two reported locations for Sangheili warriors were bound to seek each other out. Stand together as one, and all that nonsense. That was the first thing he knew.

The second thing he knew was that they would be concerned with being caught out in the open. Faced with death, a proud race like the Sangheili would seek to inflict the maximum amount of damage upon an enemy as possible. It wasn't just part of their mindset, it was part of their blood. It was what made them such tremendous warriors.

It was also what made them so patently _predictable_. Anxious to avoid being unceremoniously strafed by Loyalist air forces, the Sangheili would choose to move through an area which afforded dense cover and multiple routes. The obvious choice for them, then was the western habitation zone, where the presence of their Human allies was strongest.

Unfortunately for them, the western part of the city came to a focal point in the very clearing Yik had established his killing field in. Sooner or later, they would have to cross his path.

He reached forward and tweaked the range settings on the edge of his rifle, dialling it up to maximum, before settling back into his relaxed, motionless state. He could hold this position for three days, scarcely even blinking. That was the mark of a true hunter.

Patience.

* * *

Torikus watched as the energy lance of the Ubiquitous Triumph sliced through the ground floor of another Human dwelling. The structure was tall by the average standards of structures in this area, and it was with considerable satisfaction that he watched the top layers pancake down on top of each other, one after another. He needed something like to cheer him up, particularly after having encountered so many delays. The building, once a hotbed of Human resistance, was now little more than a rock pile and a cloud of dust.

_A marked improvement_, Torikus thought with an icy smile.

"Have Unggoy search teams sweep the area," Torikus gave a lazy, dismissive wave of his hand, "I want no survivors."

The Jiralhanae communications officer - a veteran warrior by the name of Farekus - nodded, then turned back to his console.

"High-Chieftain…" Ferikus spoke, "I am receiving distressing reports from our ground forces; methane reserves are running low, well under the minimum safety levels. If we do not withdraw and re-supply soon, we risk losing a large percentage of our infantry strength."

"Then we lose them." Torikus said coldly, "It has taken us days to get this far; we cannot afford to let the Humans consolidate. Have more Unngoy sent down from our northern field base,"

"Understood, High-Chieftain…" Ferikus' fingers danced over the console. A frown.

"High-Chieftain…"

"What is it?"

"… the field base, I do not appear to be able to raise them on the Battle Net."

This time it was Torikus' turn to frown.

"Perhaps it atmospheric interference; relay our message through the Implacable Duty."

"Understood, High-Chieftain. Doing so now…"

There was a pause. Torikus' fur bristled. He could smell Ferikus' fear.

"Yes, Ferikus?" Torikus smiled delicately. It was a dangerous smile. Ferikus swallowed and continued reporting.

"The _Implacable Duty_ is refusing to receive any signals from us. Indeed, it is not even within transmitting range."

Torikus sat forward in his throne intently.

"Impossible, my instructions to Bralterakus were quite specific. How are we currently communicating with our air forces?"

Ferikus typed more instructions, liaising with an air-wing commander for a moment. When he turned around, his eyes were wide with shock.

"High-Chieftain, our air forces report that while they are receiving their instructions from our ground forces and unit commanders on local bands, communications from our Carrier have been silent for over two days now…"

Torikus stood bolt upright. His hair stood on its end. He had ordered his crew to contact him only if absolutely necessary, focusing on the tactical prosecution of the invasion at hand. This was an alarming development, and thoroughly unexpected.

"Send word to all our air forces - Phantom Dropships, Banshee escort fighters, even the Spirit crews - every single one of them is to return to the Implacable Duty, with orders to arrest and detain the bridge crew of the Implacable Duty. I care not how many of them it takes to get the job done. I want communications restored by daybreak tomorrow morning. No excuses."

"Your will be done, High-Chieftain."

Perturbed, Torikus sat down and resumed surveying the battle unfolding before him.

* * *

Perry's legs were killing him.

They'd ditched their rides some time back, the flames having hemmed them in against a series of narrow warehouses which afforded scant room for manoeuvre, even by a Mongoose's standards. Now the ODST had point, slinking their way from alley to cargo shed with thinly disguised haste. Though they moved with their trademark discipline, their increased pace noticeably accounted for the flames creeping up in pursuit.

Occasionally, the firestorm caught up. The inferno flared up around them, bathing the whole world in an amber glow. It surged in roaring spasms, fed by the copious amount of fuel spilled out onto the streets during the bombardment. Occasionally there would be an explosion, as the heat swallowed gas lamps and cooked oil reserves, melting their containers with explosives results. Windows burst outward from the heat, showering biting glass overhead. Chins tucked against their chests, boots crunching across the carpet of glass, the humans retreated.

Not for the first time, Perry kicked himself for having caused all of this.

It was fortunate that the Covenant were feeling the heat just as much as they were. If anything, they were more unsettled by the ever-spreading wildfire. Jiralhanae hooted in mortal fear as they fled, leaving their Unggoy foot soldiers struggling to catch up. It proved to be a futile exercise; their methane reserves began to gurgle and tick ominously as they attempted to escape the encroaching inferno. They tripped to the earth, coughing and gagging as the flames washed over them.

Their masters fared better, but nevertheless panicked in the maelstrom of heat. The flames had triggered something in them; a deep and primordial terror. Many of them began swinging from girder to girder, imitating the apes they so often resembled. Terrified whoops and shrieks - a frenzied blend of panic and anguish - rent the air as the bars became too scalding to grip.

Those still on the ground wrenched their armour free as it glowed hot in the flames, and set off scampering for freedom on all fours, knuckles dragging across the dirt. Only the most disciplined of the beasts maintained any semblance of cohesion, using their jump-packs to avoid the worst of the inferno.

The net result was that Murphy's strike team was left largely untouched until they cleared the edges of the refinery district, which by this time had collapsed in upon itself as they emerged from the sooty fog, coughing and spluttering.

They found themselves on Highway Three, one of the main avenues which bisected the eastern edge of the western habitation blocks and ran all the way to the Starport. Ahead were the Three Steeples, which by this point were beginning to look more like the Two and a Half Steeples: the Scarab was doing its best to saw the buildings in half with its main beam weapon.

They almost immediately came under fire. A convoy of three Wraith artillery tanks were gliding their way up the road, turrets unfolded and poised to fire. Fortunately their opening salvo was off by a significant margin. The salvo soared overhead, pulverising an already plasma-scored billboard behind them but achieving little more.

The convoy's infantry support, a gaggle of shield-toting Jackals and low ranking Brutes, sprayed a scattered salvo of needles and plasma shots in their direction, but the distance was too great. The ODST responded in kind, using their weapons' superior range to pick off the advancing aliens with pinpoint accuracy. Aliens twisted and fell.

"Keep moving; get across the street!" Murphy ordered, dropping to one knee as he took up a firing stance. "ODST, cover fire!"

The ODST fanned out, spreading themselves apart as much as possible. The militia hurried past, slipping over the edge of the causeway and taking cover in the far alley. Only Perry dallied: once again, he found himself gawking awkwardly at the ODST's coordination, to a point where Hep had to run back and physically drag him by the scruff of his flight suit.

"We're going to need AT!" Murphy shouted above the din, "Mendoza, prep the launcher!"

The AT specialist shrugged his launcher - a disposable rocket tube of militia origin - into position, rising up to a kneeling stance.

As it turned out, he need not have bothered.

There came a sneeze-hiss from one of the wrecked apartment buildings lining the highway, and one of the lead Wraiths abruptly imploded. Covenant shock troops flung themselves to the ground, hitting the dirt as a crackle of small arms fire diced the pavement, throwing up tiny puffs of chipped asphalt.

Another rocket hurtled out, ramming into the side of the second tank. Amazingly, the vehicle survived, though its starboard grav plates failed and it began dragging its hull along the tarmac with an ugly screech. A well placed rocket from Mendoza's launcher finished the job.

The last tank limped away to the south, abandoning its companions to the mercy of the human ambushers. Only a single Jackal escaped, though it fled blindly in the direction of the firestorm, plasma shield held over its head like an umbrella in a lethal rainstorm. It disappeared into the smoke. Perry never saw what became of it.

"Oscar-Delta-Sierra-Tango to wideband, thanks for the assist, over." Murphy rose to his feet, slinging his BR-55.

"Don't thank us just yet, Sir," responded a female voice, "There's at least two more groups just like it advancing up the highway. Advise you get your asses into the resi-blocks before Covie air patrols catch you in the open."

Murphy was already moving, leading his rag-tag team of veterans into the comparative safety of a dense maze of apartment blocks.

"No need to tell us twice, friend. Inform Captain Banning that we are en rout to her location. See you at the RV, out."

"RV? There's an RV?" Perry asked, trying to keep up with the rushing

"Hotel Luxembourg, over between the Three Steeples." Fenton grunted, checking his corner for signs of hostile contact.

"Hotel Luxembourg? Sounds kinda fancy." Smith remarked.

Murphy's boots crunched over broken glass as they slunk past the burnt out husk of an old eighteen wheeler truck. Its driver was slumped over the steering wheel, his bones blackened a matchstick black, his empty eye sockets gaping. The corpse's teeth dazzled in an inane, morbid grin. Murphy shook his head, clearing the image from his thoughts.

"Yeah, I bet it's real nice."

* * *

They called it the Riverbed.

Where its name came from was pretty obvious to most people who knew anything about Crassus. Having served with the volunteer militia for six years, Maria Banning was one of those very people. It stretched ten metres across in width, and snaked its way throughout the habitation zone, disappearing off somewhere beneath the Curtain Wall. Now home to a series of (unused) irrigation ditches and (over-used) machine gun posts, the Riverbed was usually crossed by way of a series of short steel walk-ways, but Banning had ordered them removed, using them instead to reinforce the walls of the Hotel Luxembourg.

Of course, it was a ditch now, having been dried up for eons.

The Hotel Luxembourg - now that name was a mystery. Not that she cared, really. Banning had precious little time for the intricate histories of each and every place name on this dust ball planet. Especially when that time was fast running out. It was sufficient to know that the Hotel was their strongpoint, and with its curving balconies and large bay windows, commanded a prominent viewpoint over the Riverbed.

While a seemingly squat structure, in contrast to the comparatively gargantuan Steeples, the Hotel was the closest thing Horizon had to luxury. Its courtyard had been lined with quartz flagstones, imported from off world, which had been duly polished by the Hotel's previous staff. Or at least they had been, until repeated strafing runs from Covenant Banshees had reduced them to brittle shards of molten glass. Structurally sound, and less imposing than the surrounding buildings, the Hotel itself had escaped the worst of the air-strikes, and Banning had employed it as the linchpin of her desperate defence accordingly.

Since Grier's death, things had been grim to say the least. Her command platoon had barely sixteen left out of the original fifty. She was in charge now, though to call it a command as such was distinctly disingenuous. The rest of her rag-tag command was just that - a bedraggled collection of misfits and strays, colonists who had managed to escape the horrendous butchery of the last rout, and fallen in with her in the hopes of improving their chances. There was three hundred of them all told, dug in and grimly awaiting her next command, and any accompanying words of support.

If only she knew what to tell them.

Banning dreaded to think of what might happen were they to lose here. Their withdrawal had been messy, a run-and-gun flight away from the overwhelmed Curtain Wall, and it was a miracle that she managed to rally any of them at all. Others had formed themselves into roving bands of skirmishers, but for the most part communication lines had been effectively severed, and these disparate pockets of resistance were performing independently of each other. Any strategic coordination was down to blind luck, and the fact that most of the mere sticking to Abelev's original instructions.

She'd sent out runners the previous day, but had so far heard nothing. There was talk of a large resistance movement in the Steeples, and Sergeant Murphy's mob in the east was promising "a plan" the last time they'd spoken over the com-line, but that had been almost over a day ago. Since then, the south had exploded in the mother of all shit-storms. The same shit-storm which had taken out their local uplink tower, and presumably every other tower in the nearby vicinity.

She'd lost contact with everyone after that.

And so she waited, making small adjustments to each one of her men's positions. Micromanaging them: a sight recalibration here, a small traverse there. Nothing was left to chance. If the Brutes wanted to take this neighbourhood, they'd have to bleed for it, guaranteed.

This mentality was carried through to the surrounding area. The two adjacent buildings, formerly a low-rise habitation block and a local police station respectively, had been comprehensively shelled, but she'd stationed some of her gunner teams throughout the fire-gutted upper floors, their weapons poking out from the ruins of the charred devastation.

The Hotel was no different. Mortar teams occupied the inner courtyard, and the corridors walls were seemingly propped up by dozens of unspent rocket tubes. Tense militia fighters lingered at their assigned posts, chewing gum and staring over the horizon nervously. None of them wanted to go toe to toe with the Brutes again. Not after the Wall fell. Banning toured the lines, making small talk where small talk was needed.

She stopped by her com officer, a compact man by the name of Hoskins. He was swabbing the muzzle of a snub-nosed machine gun with a frayed cloth. Doing so with manic intensity. His useless com-set lay forgotten in the corner, a duo of Covenant spike-rounds protruding from it. Hoskins had been lucky to walk away from that one alive. She crouched by him, offering a smile. He returned it with a curt nod.

"I see you've taken up a new interest, Hoskins." Banning noted.

"Aggressive communications, Ma'am." Hoskins grinned. "Same job, different method."

"Give them an earful for me then, Trooper."

She rose to her feet, crossing toward the balcony. Resting her hand on one of the fluted columns set into the wall, she took a sip from her canteen and thought for a moment.

"Still no word from anyone else? Major Abelev? Sergeant Murphy? Anyone?"

"Nothing, Ma'am. Even without my local 'set, the uplink towers and wireless networks are all down in this area, maybe even across the city. Nothing but fuzz on all channels."

"Keep an ear out, still. I'm willing to place a bet that whosever's out there, they're probably having a better time of it than we are…"

* * *

"Get down, get down!"

They hit the dirt. Or in this case, the pavement. Spiker rounds wailed into the walls, the lethal brambles shivering into place as they struck home. A wave of dust, shavings of shredded pavement and chipped stone, cascaded over Perry. Blinking grit out of his eyes, he couldn't see for the life of him. The ODST could, however, their helmet systems tracking through the chaos. They were already rising to kneeling firing stances; moving, shooting, communicating. Killing.

Perry kept his head down, fervently trying to blink the grit from his eyes.

They were crossing a bazaar. Or trying to, at any rate. Commerce was limited in Horizon, particularly since the inception of the Human-Covenant War. A consequence of this was an increase in civilian-to-civilian bartering, which led to the genesis of a number of markets similar to the one they now found themselves in. Perry shuffled up behind an upturned table cart and dared to peek out over the edge.

A squad of Brutes was converging on them from the far end of the square. Four of them, low ranking ones from the looks of it, but huge and intimidating nonetheless. Their leader's golden helmet was slightly thicker than that of his allies, his crimson eyes glaring out over the rim of a bowl-shaped faceguard.

The Brute stood tall as bullets fizzled harmlessly against his shields, feet planted on the roof of an abandoned car. He lay down a wall of suppressive fire with his grenade launcher, ripping apart any militia fighter dumb enough to poke their heads out of cover. The Jiralhanae around him slunk forward in loping strides, trying to get an angle on their prey, who had spread themselves out behind an array of packing crates, wooden pallets and stone plinths. Whatever meagre cover was available was going to be of a temporary nature, given the ferocity of the Brute assault.

Hammond, one of the Militia trackers, rose up and unleashed a spray of MA5B fire. By the time he ducked back into cover, there was little left of him but a bloodied spine protruding from a smoking mess of a torso. The gold Brute snorted a raucous laugh, pausing to reload. Stray bullets whickered off his armour, but it didn't seem to concern the creature in the slightest. Perry snarled, his blood up, and unloaded on Hammond's killer. A full clip. He didn't release the trigger until the charge handle snapped back, indicating an empty magazine.

Once the smoke cleared, the Brute was still standing. Granted, the shield system of its armour plating flickered slightly, but he might as well have hit it with a pea shooter. The pilot was struck by the distinct realisation of how bloody outmatched they were. Perry dropped back behind the cart, flinching as a return volley of spikes punched straight through the cart, missing his nose by a hair's breadth.

"Goddamn it!" Perry swore, diving from behind the cart to where two of the ODST were holed up.

"I'm not even denting the bastards!"

"Want me to hit it with a rocket?" Hep asked brightly. He was back in the alley they'd come from, his launcher prepped and ready. Murphy shook his head.

"Save it for a rainy day; I don't want us using up all our ammo, not on regular ground troops."

"Then how do you suggest we kill this bastard?" Perry balked. He was feeling distinctly underwhelming with his decidedly useless assault rifle.

"We've got to fight smart!" Murphy replied, slapping a new clip home and racking the charge handle.

"Speaking of which…"

Murphy nodded out toward the open. There was a cluster of dead Loyalist Grunts scattered about throughout the market. Victims of a slow, choking death, their weapons lay beside them; unused and unfired. Discarded plasma pistols shined in the afternoon sun. Perry's jaw fell open in slow-dawning realisation as he saw what Murphy was asking of him.

"You're not serious!" Perry gaped.

"Flyboy, for once do I look like I'm taking the piss?"

"I-"

"…Have the utmost faith in you." Murphy finished the sentence for him, "Just don't stop moving!"

Perry was about to reply, but Murphy was already speaking.

"Go on three!" Murphy suddenly rose to his feet, weapon spitting, "Three!"

Perry was reciting a litany of swear words as he clambered upright and rushed out into the open. The Brutes gawked in disbelief: how stupid could one Human be? He could feel the air around him hum with lethal projectiles, both human and non-human in origin. Either through skill, or more likely blind, dumb luck, he reached the dead grunts untouched. He snatched one of their pistols up, then threw himself gracelessly behind a squat information kiosk. A wall of enemy spikes followed him, and for the next minute or two he was effectively pinned.

The enemy's fire slackened, and the human weapons increased in pitch. The kiosk ceased shuddering.

Perry studied the weapon. It looked like a horse shoe, a really ornate, alien horseshoe.

Fortunately the mechanics of it were simple enough. He pressed the trigger, jumping as a spurt of plasma spat out, singeing the wall. There was an odd tension to the trigger. Frowning, he squeezed his finger and held it down. A ball of green light began to coalesce at the mouth of the weapon, and the weapon began to throb. Then it started to shake. The ball grew bigger.

Perry peeked his head around the corner, a feral grin fixed on his face. The Brute squad leader had forgotten all about him.

The weapon was shaking uncontrollably now. The ball was blinding. Even as he held it away from him, he could feel the heat of it on his cheeks. Guessing as to where the Brute was, Perry released the trigger.

The weapon bucked like a mule, throwing Perry onto his seat. The plasma sizzled forward, slapping into the side of the golden Brute. Its shields ignited, engulfing and - with a hissing sizzle- disintegrated its armour. Murphy's fire team did the rest. There was a wet ripping sound as the militia fighters and commandos unloaded into the beast in unison. The Brute gurgled, then flopped back off the car's roof, slipping on its own blood.

Without its covering fire the three remaining Brutes suddenly found themselves exposed. Concerted firepower from the militia drove them back out of cover; they jerked about as they were struck down, their weaker shield systems unable to cope with the strain.

It was Fenton who hauled Perry back up onto his feet. It was impossible to see the man's face, but the tone of his voice was clear:

"Next time, release the trigger sooner, flyboy."

Perry grinned sheepishly, before moving to collect the rest of the Grunts weapons. His own one had melted into slag from the strain of the blast, but there was another six or so for the taking. Murphy noticed the look on Perry's face, and grinned himself.

"It's a mini Christmas, Warmonger. Keep those things handy; we're almost at the RV, but I reckon we're going to need a few more of them before we get there."

* * *

Zerat soon guided the Shipmaster to the warriors he had journeyed to see. They were just north-west of the flames, which forever rumbled on in the background, distant and muted. Safe for now, the abandoned warehouse had been spared the worst of the fighting.

The two warriors stepped inside, weapons raised.

There was eight of them, standing in a wide semi-circle: Three crimson Sangheili Major Domos and the rest junior warriors. They stood tall and strong, though their armour was ragged and scorched from five days of constant struggle and endless toil. Vtan was immensely proud of all of them, but his heart was heavy.

So many others had fallen.

His voice was heavy as he spoke.

"This is it?" Vtan asked, "This is all that remain?"

"Squad Leader Kil'kar's warriors are denying the enemy at the Northern Gate." reported Sahk'ar, as he absently fingering a ragged hole in his azure blue shoulder pauldron.

"Though our own Battle Net is frayed and broken up by the enemy's broadcasts, rumours from the Human rank and file is that the Jiralhanae hurl themselves upon the Northern Gate with unquenchable ferocity. It appears they seek to bury our brethren beneath their own bloodied corpses."

Vtan nodded slowly. He looked toward the North. The sounds of distant artillery shells echoed softly. It had become a constant sound over the past week, all too familiar.

"Then that is where we must go."

* * *

Fenton's earlier prediction about the fire's destructive potential proved to be prophetic. A third of the city had been gutted by the inferno, and it would have continued unabated, were it not for a timely combination of sound planning, strange coincidence, and pure merciful chance.

It was late evening. High-Chieftain Torikus had watched as a large portion of the Covenant's southern push fell victim to the blaze, the survivors of the devastation becoming uncoordinated and disjointed from the rest of the Pack. There was little he could do: few Jiralhanae had the discipline to keep a clear head when placed in such an environment, and were it not for the select _Jiral'ja_ survivors rallying most of the survivors, he would have written off the entire region altogether. Choosing to press his advantage on the western and eastern parts of the city, he ordered his forces to continue the attack.

It was not an easy thing to do. For one, many of the Jiralhanae were caught between a rock and a hard place: they had the option of wading headlong into line after line of waiting Human ambushes, or stand where they were and be consumed by the fire. Ultimately the prospect of a fiery death proved to be a better motivator than any encouragement he might have offered, and the Jiralhanae surged onward, driven by a furious determination to survive, if nothing more. Even in instances where the Humans had the advantage of planning and numbers, it became an even fight, as the Covenant warriors fought desperately to break through.

Abelev, meanwhile, was not without his own problems. Supplies were running to critical levels across the board, but chief amongst those was water. Shelling had destroyed most of the water pipes and storage towers, ironically flooding a city that was on the verge of dehydrating. That was perhaps one of the cruellest things inflicted upon the human resistance fighters. The plasma bombardments had blocked most of the city's drainage systems, and several areas in the residential district found themselves wading through foul smelling waste. As they slogged through the grey water, they became painfully aware of their own empty canteens.

The fires had long since spilled out of control, but war is a strange thing, and fate stranger still.

It began to rain. Crassus had not seen rain in years, decades even. But the atmosphere had been overburdened by the voluminous plasma fire unleashed upon the city. The pressure built up, broiling in its intensity. The skies darkened with clouds and then rumbled with ominous thunder. With a thrilling keen of lightning, they split altogether. Rain, bitter tasting and disconcertingly warm, began to wash down over the city, sluicing down the streets and pooling in filthy puddles. So heavy was the downpour that, for those in the Habitation Zone, the Riverbed finally got to live up to its name.

Storm drains had been implemented as part of Crassus' design, but they had never been maintained. After all, what was the need? Rain was never dreamt of on this planet, let alone seen. Better to service the air filtration units, which were more essential commodities on this lonely desert planet.

In the more shallow regions of the city, puddles became pools, which in turn became floods. Warriors from both armies sloshed about, ankle-deep as they charged one another, slipping and thrashing in the rain-sodden muck. All manner of pollutants fouled the water a murky brown, as bodies began to float to the surface, bobbing gently as the living hurried by.

Vermin scurried to high ground, leaping across Perry's boots and making him jump. By the time they arrived at the RV, he was soaked through his skin and exhausted.

Conditions were miserable. Abelev ordered the emergency water stores opened, and all excess water contained and purified. The southern firestorm, for its part, did not die down for another week. So strong was the spilled propellant that the fire continued to burn, though the risk of it spreading had ended for the time being. Eventually, almost a week later, the last of the fires would die out altogether.

Fortune, it seemed, had intervened.

As a whole, the outcome of the battle continued to hang in the balance, with neither side gaining a discernable upper hand. Isolated from the orbiting Carrier, and denied re-supply from their now-defunct staging area, the Jiralhanae forces on the surface found themselves in a precarious position. Though their individual warriors were physically stronger than the Humans, and their sense of faith unshakeable, they now fought without the easy confidence instilled by the knowledge of absolute superiority.

Torikus, all too aware of this, began to order his warriors more conservatively. He now faced the same problems Abelev did: limited resources, dwindling morale and little to no supplies.

Both armies were exhausted, on the brink of collapse.

More superstitious commentators would later note the unsettling timing of the thunderstorms. To them, it was as though the planet itself was anticipating one final, climactic clash. Death and glory awaited those who would seek to be victors, and the entire battle would play out during the worst recorded storms in the planet's known history.

By the time the rain stopped, the outcome of the battle - indeed the entire campaign - would be decided.


	29. Day Six: Showdowns and Reckonings

_"If you're not already dead then, God damn it, you're not fighting hard enough."_

- attributed to Major Gregor Abelev, Crassus communication logs; November 2552

* * *

Even on the wettest of days, the sun still shone over Crassus.

Six black Elites stood atop the remains of the Unquestionable Truth, apart from their Human allies, and stared up at the rising sun. In their midst sat Rukth Kil'kar, who rested pensively, quiet and unhurried. A large spear lay across his lap, and he sharpened its blade-edges with the glowing nozzle of a plasma pistol. The staff had once been the spine of a Brute Chieftain Malwrekus' Gravity Hammer. Rukth had salvaged it from the decapitated Scarab, prising it from the stiff, dead hands of its former owner.

The weapon's power cell had imploded in the fury of the Scarab's death, but that mattered little to Rukth, who quickly stripped it of all that made it a hammer. The head had been peeled off, the thick handle trimmed to a smoother finish. The Elite had intentionally desecrated the sacred relic: the merest glimpse of the weapon would incense the Jiralhanae, throwing them even further off balance, were such a thing still possible at this point. Carving it into a graceful, nimble spear, it had become a deadly weapon in its own right, sacrificing blunt force trauma in exchange for lighting speed.

Tiny notches spiralled their way along the spear's shaft, each jagged cut marking a kill Rukth had made with the weapon since its creation. He had run out of space long ago.

And so he sat, and worked on his weapon, waiting. The rain had slackened in tone, if only for a time. While the clouds had receded, the skies still rumbled with the promise of further downpour to come. Still the rain felt cool on his skin, and the brief moment of respite was welcome. His six brethren stood in a line to either side of him, the drizzle dribbling over the rims of their ebony helmets, washing the caked mud from their faces. Occasionally, spears of light would stab through the clouds, drifting across the dunes and warming the skin on their faces as they passed.

The Mgalekgolo stood with them. Being Mgalekgolo, they said nothing.

The scene, with the distant golden sand and the closer blackened earth, was a strange, disturbing sight. Crassus was a beautiful place, in its own rugged way, and yet that beauty had been tainted. It was as though the land had been struck by a plague that marred everywhere it touched. Together they surveyed the horizon, quiet and perplexed.

It was Klal who broke the silence.

"What a curious sight, Brothers." he said, indicating it all with a sweep of his hand, "See how it rains, and yet the sun burns brightly still."

"It is an omen," Qnar declared knowingly, fancying himself as something of an augur, "Even through this wretched storm, hope remains."

"Hah!" snorted Azul, as fiery as ever, "'Hope' he says! That bastard cousin of Fortune; what need have we Sangheili of Hope? Thousands we have slain, and still they come. Mark my words, Brothers, we shall die this day."

Rukth looked up and caught Azul's gaze. He turned to each of them, nodding with determined self-belief.

"Then we shall die fighting," Rukth said calmly.

They each growled their grim approval, before turning back to stare out over the bleak landscape. In the far distance, beyond the killing fields they had made their own, the Jiralhanae host simmered in anticipation; licking its wounds. The beast-kin were enraged, and would be hungry for vengeance. Soon, the waiting would be over.

And then the hammer would truly fall.

* * *

The ODST on point raised a clench fist. The rest of the fire-team froze.

"Contacts inbound," Sweeney whispered over the squad channel.

They crouched in the skeletal ruin of a bombed-out greenhouse, which adjoined a narrow by-way leading toward the Bazaar. Two large skylights which dominated the ceiling had been blown inward, and one of the walls was little more than a gaping hole to the street beyond. The crispy remains of what had once been verdant plant-life crunched as they shifted their weight, waiting in silence. Less than twelve minutes away from the RV, and they'd to run into another batch of hostiles. Just their luck.

Overhead, thunder rumbled. There was another storm coming, and not just of the atmospheric kind. The drizzle licked down across Murphy's faceplate; driblets coursing down its surface and gaining momentum as they pooled into one another. He wiped it with the back of his armoured fist. This was going to be a point-blank ambush, quick 'n dirty.

With two quick flicks of his hand, the ODST skittered into ambush positions.

They saw a flickering shadow cast up from beyond the by-way, a tall figure. Lighting flashed, then it was gone.

"Get ready with that zap-gun of yours, Perry," Murphy murmured as he sighted his rifle, "See if you can hit their leader."

Perry nodded, slinging his own rifle and drawing out the alien pistol. The pilot was still astounded at just how light it was. He raised the weapon, but refrained from squeezing the trigger. No sense in revealing their location just yet. Meanwhile Smith was barely able to keep the excited tremor from his voice: reporting things with all the anticipation of a hushed child on Christmas Eve. Perry reckoned the commando was either strung out on stims, or a born-again war junkie. Likely both.

"Holy shit," the commando hissed in anticipation, "I make it six contacts on the tracker. Movin' fast too!"

Shadows appeared on the wall, backlit by the occasional strobe of lighting. Long and tall, they slunk forward, shoulders slightly hunched.

Abruptly, the radar contacts disappeared. Smith cocked his head to one side, confused.

"What the…"

Murphy made a quick pointing gesture, tapping two of his fingers against his visor. Watanabe, moving up to point beyond Sweeney, nodded smartly and rose to her feet, sidling up against the corner of the wall. She reached up to the back of her helmet, detaching a fibre-optic cable and snaking it around the corner.

Watanabe shook her head,

"No contact, Sergeant. Looks quiet."

"Or so it would appear." A serene voice added from above.

They looked up. A half-dozen Elites crouched on the roof of the building above them, limbs curled around the skeletal pipelines which ran overhead. their shark-like eyes blinking down at them slowly. Perry recognised Vtan at their centre, his sloping faceplate and glowing eyes setting him apart from his kin.

Smith rose to his feet, indignant and not a little alarmed.

"How did you…?"

"One does not become Shipmaster under the Hierarchs without learning a trick or two, friend Human." Vtan's mandibles twitched in bemusement, "…particularly when it comes to subterfuge."

As if on cue, another six Elites - the ones Smith had been tracking on his battle suit's motion tracker - loped into view. They warbled greetings to one another in their own tongue, the sound guttural and terse. Perry noted the battered condition of the aliens' combat chassis. Like Murphy's Militia, they looked as though they'd fought a dozen wars themselves, and lived to tell the tale. So far.

Vtan vaulted to the ground, making the two storey drop seem like all of two feet.

He rose above them, a nightmarish sight in the streaming rain. The Shipmaster's voice, deep and resonant, was felt rather than heard.

"This is all I could salvage from the ongoing conflict. Only my warriors holding the Northern Crater remain unaccounted for. I am honour bound to retrieve them now."

"Mind if we tag along 'til we get to the RV?" Murphy asked, resting his rifle on his shoulder, "It's not a long walk, but with the way things have been going, we could use the extra muscle."

Vtan nodded, addressing them all.

"Come, friends, your Starport is but a short distance from here. I do not know about you, but I for one could use some respite. Perhaps I am getting old - all this killing has left me tired."

The Elites warbled in amusement, though the joke was entirely lost on their smaller allies: to them, it was impossible to gauge Vtan's age. There was still so much to learn.

That is, provided they had a chance to survive that long.

"Warriors, take point," Vtan added in his own language, "Protect the Humans. Remember: our armour has shield systems, theirs does not."

"Primitives."

"Less muttering, more fighting, Zerat."

* * *

Administrator Jennings appeared in the doorframe.

"Captain Banning's platoon has just returned to the RV, Major."

Abelev nodded, scratching at his beard. What had once been bristly stubble had sprouted into a thick white bush, underscoring his haggard, sunken eyes.

"Status?"

"Green, Major. They held on for as long as they could, but with the Wall down, the Brutes are able to move into the city easily. We're receiving reports that most of the enemy are funnelling in from the west."

"And the rest?"

"Last contact with the Northern Crater was about three hours ago; they gave the Brutes a licking, but they're in desperate need of re-supply. East is a mess; pockets of friendlies all over the place, and they seem to be spared the worst of it, but Sergeant Murphy's hasn't been in regular contact since the shit-storm went up in the refineries down south. We get reports from the returning picket groups from time to time, but it's… patchy."

Abelev grunted, which had become his inscrutable method of saying there was little else to do; a noise he was beginning to make more and more often, much to Jennings' concern. He tapped a key on the display and an image of the super Scarab appeared, rotating slowly. He stared at it pensively for a moment.

"What's their armour strength?" Abelev asked, "Tanks, choppers? Aircraft?"

"Negligible; our fire-teams nailed most of them before they got too far into the city. They've withdrawn from assaulting the Habitation Zone… the Three Steeples are gone though."

"That was bound to happen." he grumbled.

Jennings rebelled against the initial spike of disgust she felt at his response when she saw how drained he looked. The major looked up, seeing the look of conflict in her face.

"I'm sorry, Administrator. It's been a long week. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay," Jennings managed, ploughing forward past the awkward silence, "So what's our next move?"

Abelev chuckled darkly, sparing her an appreciative look.

"Now you're speaking my language, Administrator. I've got a plan, don't you worry."

"And that plan is…?" she arched an eyebrow.

"Dependant on Sergeant Murphy getting his ass back to friendly lines - for now, let's just hold the fort."

Abelev went back to pouring over the command interface, dragging icons across its surface with deft strokes of his hand. It was mostly academic by this point: most of the units beyond the range of the Starport's PA were beyond the range of any effective communications.

Apparently she was dismissed, so the Administrator took her leave.

In truth, Amanda was glad to get out of there. She could see firsthand the effect command was having on the major. His physique, once been strong and bear-like, had been considerable for a man in his mid to late forties. Now he looked more akin to a drought victim: his vitality sapped, a wasted shadow of his former self. The stress was eating him alive, quite literally. He no longer bothered to conceal his quivering hand.

The Administrator was no fool, she knew what he was doing, the enormous strain Abelev was placing on both his mind and his body by chain-pumping the stims. And yet what was she to do? Take over, and risk what brittle defences still held while Gregor took a nap? A dark thought wandered into her head, and she tried to push it away. And yet there it remained, insidious and oh-so-painfully true.

_Why bother, Amanda? _the voice said, _After all, in a few hours it won't make any difference._

"Stop it," she muttered to herself, "Now is not the time to go crazy."

"Uh, Administrator, were you talking to me?"

Amanda spun around. A pilot was standing before her, an attractive woman with a slight build and sharp eyes. She had been one of the few pilots to survive the initial aerial skirmish, and as the siege had continued, and fuel supplies dwindled, she had quickly found a way to keep herself busy as a general gofer for UNSC HQ. What was her name again; Sabrina, Santiago?

"Flight Office Santos," Jennings smiled, pleased that at least her memory had not failed her, "My apologies, I was having a bit of a discussion with myself."

"Going crazy too, huh?" Santos returned the smile, "Don't worry, I've been crawling up the walls at just the thought of those Covie bastards hogging up my sky. Is the Major around?"

"When is he not?" Jennings spied the data-pad held under the pilot's arm, "He's inside."

"Ten four, thanks Administrator."

Santos made her way past him. Curiously, she was clad in full flight gear. More curiously still, she held her flight helmet under the crook of her arm. Amanda watched her go, an apprehensive frown settling on her forehead. She let it slide, her desire to check on Sarah superseding any curiosity she might have.

Still, try as she might, Amanda couldn't quite shake the feeling that Abelev was planning something, and that - somehow - she wasn't going to like it.

* * *

They stood before the South-Western Bazaar. It was an open plain, surrounded by the skeletal office blocks and collapsed tents, the green canvas tents trodden and tramped into a filthy brown by the stamp of marching feet. Nothing in the surrounding area had been left standing, and clumps of heaped rubble punctuated the vast space leading toward the Starport, like dung piles in a cow field. The Three Steeples rose up past the clearing, though by this point one the title of The Three Stubs seemed more appropriate. The Scarab had spent most of the previous day delighting in their destruction. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear the clump of its angry stomping, and the hissing-roar of its beam projectors.

"That's one hell of a run." Perry declared.

"Lot of open terrain." Fenton agreed.

Hepburn's contribution to the conversation was a low, plaintive whistle.

"An accurate assessment, friends." nodded Zerat. "We would be easy prey for Jiralhanae fliers."

"We don't have much of a choice," Murphy countered grimly, "Abelev wants us to RV at the Starport, and it's the quickest way there. Besides, the skies are clear from the looks of things; what could possibly go wrong?"

_What indeed_, thought Perry sourly.

"You speak the truth, Human: we have little choice." Vtan said, "You need to return to your Command Centre, and I must regroup with my Brothers in the North. We cannot afford to dally here."

Decision made, they set out across the clearing. It was early to mid morning, and the showers had picked up in tempo. Rain; warm and unpleasant, lashed down on them. The air was hot and sticky, and Perry shivered in his tattered flight suit, which clung to his skin like paper mache. The war, and all the resulting plasma bombardment it entailed, was still playing havoc with the atmosphere. They sloshed ankle-deep through muck, picking their way across the mosaic of crater shells which marred the open field.

All the while, that apprehensive tingle wouldn't go away.

Perry wasn't sure when he had first started getting it. It was a talent he had developed over the years, something all combat fliers quickly learned to trust, or ignore at their own peril. Call it instinct, pilot's intuition maybe, but Perry couldn't afford to ignore it. To do so would be like not scratching the ultimate itch, and in times like this, not scratching that itch could very well prove fatal.

And yet, too fatigued to speak up, too conscious of the need to move quickly in such an exposed environment, he kept his mouth shut, and his head down.

Nevertheless, he still felt that tingle. Like he was vulnerable.

Like somebody was watching them.

* * *

Yik kept his eye pressed to the scope, body poised, frozen in position like a dancer at the end of a performance. His heart thundered in his chest, the giddy thrill of his planning having paid off rushing through his veins like liquid joy. This is what he was born to do.

There were more of them than he had anticipated. Twelve Sangheili, and some two dozen Humans, including ten of those in the dark armour. Dangerous, from the reports washing over the Battle Net. Prized too. Just another bonus to his fee.

But the Shipmaster, he was the key. The true reward. Look at him, so assured of his own survival. Such folly, such overwhelming arrogance. With his death, Yik would attain wealth beyond his wildest dreams.

All it would take is a single clean shot.

Thirty-six opponents. A sizeable number, but not impossible. Certainly, he had succeeded in similar circumstances in the past. A sniper had at his advantage a number of key weapons to equalise the odds: surprise and a soldier's fear of the unknown being two of the most important.

The enemy's own terrified imagination would be the linchpin to his success. Divide and conquer; a concept as old as time itself. He had laid his trap well, sowing the area with all variety of distractions and diversions. Every one of his tricks would be needed to succeed here.

The only questions remaining now were the when and the who. So rich was the potential bounty, he was almost paralysed by indecision. Still, decisions had to be made. He clicked the button adjacent to the firing stud, readying his weapon with a barely audible hum.

The Kig-Yar let his cross-hairs drift over the pack, whispering to each of them giddily as the targeting rune logged the targets into his scope's memory, registering heat signatures and assigning target priorities. His chittering was nonsense for the most part, but Yik was a creature of habit, and his habits had made him into the killing tool he was today.

Yik took a breath, settling his cross-hair over the centre-mass of his target. He did not fire, not immediately. He let them wander into the open first, allowing them to grow confident in the illusion of their own safety

With a single pull of the trigger, that illusion shattered.

* * *

The beam caught Vtan in the chest, punching him off his feet. He slid back across the pavement, armour scraping and shields fizzling as they evaporated. It was not a kill shot, but then again, it wasn't meant to be. A grand diversion, and the first of many to come. The two Elites closest to him leapt to his aid, and two more beams lanced out. These were decidedly more lethal. Deliberate kill-shots, the two Elites spasmed as they flopped to the ground, skulls drilled.

"Sniper!" Smith cried.

His own words damned him. Barely a heartbeat later, a fourth beam of cut through his faceplate and bore a cauterised hole out the other side. He collapsed to the wet pavement, leg twitching.

"Everyone down!" Murphy bellowed, shoving Perry to the floor and following his own advice by gracelessly flinging himself to the tarmac. No more shots came for the moment, and they used the reprieve to scramble toward whatever meagre cover was available. A forgotten ammo crate, a shallow ditch, even the collapsed wreck of an abandoned aid station - anything to escape the sniper's killing eye.

The only sound was their terrified breathing and the pattering rainfall.

They lay prone, shivering on the concrete. The rain picked up, whipping itself into a torrential shower. Terrified, Murphy's militia pressed themselves tightly against their respective shelter.

No more shots came.

Watanabe held her rifle tightly against her breastplate, heart pounding. She had been on point, and was now wracked with the irrational guilt which comes to every pathfinder at some point: the knowledge that she had led her comrades right into an ambush.

"Do we have a visual?" she called, voice refusing to crack under the pressure.

"Negative!" Fenton barked back, who was frantically playing his fiber optic cable back and forth from around the upturned Warthog he knelt behind.

"Stay down, people," Murphy's voice was similarly steady, "Call it when you see it."

Hepburn, not having the benefit of specialist training, was decidedly less calm.

"Does anyone see it?" he shrilled, "Does anyone fucking see it?"

"Shh!"

That was Perry, who found himself elbow deep in a crater, an ungraceful habit that was fast turning into a valued survival trait. Half submerged in a mucky puddle, he was shivered uncontrollably, a hair's breath from pissing himself. Which, alas, was also becoming habit-forming.

Vtan lay on his back, head lolling groggily. He was still out in the open.

"Stay still!" Perry urged.

Vtan nodded, eyes closed, sucking in lungful after lungful of painful air. The sound wheezed through his faceplate. It felt as though he had been shoulder-charged by an enraged Mgalekgolo. The breastplate of his combat chassis had been dented inward, and were it not for the advanced shield systems afforded to those of his station, he would surely be dead. As it was, he was very lucky to merely be winded.

His Elites, keeping low, braved the distance and hauled him into the relative shelter of a fire-gutted kiosk. With a dim hum, his chassis reasserted its defensive field.

"Are you injured, Shipmaster?" asked Ri'kar, one of his junior warriors. The Shipmaster shook his head, still unable to speak.

When he did, it was a strangled rasp.

"Zerat. Go."

"Gladly." Zerat replied as he slunk away, stealth field engaging with a liquid shimmer.

Seconds later, it seemed like he might as well have never existed in the first place.

Murphy squinted out into the pouring rain, blinking it from his eyes. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the hissing rain. All the while, a frenzied question buzzed in his skull.

_Where the hell was the shooter?_

* * *

Yik calmly relinquished his talon from the trigger, waiting. He was quite protected from his vantage point, a jumbled cluster of unremarkably piled rocks, quite indistinguishable from the dozens other piles surrounding it. There were other taller, more dramatic sniping perches available in the area; overrunning pipelines, the skeletal remains top-mounted rail track, a few scattered trade structures, but they were so obvious as to be useless.

To date, he was pleased with how he had opened his performance. It was going exactly to plan. Yik had expended his shots so quickly, the Separatists had barely any time to source his location, and would doubtless suspect any high vantage point over his innocuous hiding place. From here, he would be able to claim the bounty on _all _of them.

In this instance, subtlety was essential.

This philosophy carried through to his equipment. Like his body-glove, Yik's Beam Rifle was entirely custom made. The barrel was thicker; wider, more pronounced. This was because its heat vents were internalised, capable of absorbing any excess steam into the power battery of his body-suit, rather than expending it through external flues. It would be folly to conduct oneself any other way.

Another essential asset at his disposal was his own originality.

Yik knew full well the mistakes made by his fellow Kig-Yar. Their skill with a Beam Rifle was commendable, if not occasionally exceptional, but their imaginations proved to be sorely lacking. A reliance on teamwork made them prone to discovery, as did their reliance on vision-enhancing eye-scopes - a technology Yik possessed, but rarely employed. He preferred sighting using his naked eye. It was purer that way.

It allowed him to savour each kill.

That particular foible of Yik's had other benefits too. He had removed the eye-scope, rigging it to his combat harness' communications headset. This he had attached to his side-arm, a bone-engraved plasma pistol, which functioned as a remote controlled power source. Using some excess bonding salve taken from his inventory, he had fashioned a simplistic transmitter, and slaved this to the wrist control of his body suit.

Though it had taken considerable effort, he had dragged one of his fallen kin atop one of the more blatant sniper perches, an observation tower some thirty metres west of his position. Clasping the dead Kig-Yar's claws to an expended Beam Rifle, and tethering him upright with a salvaged ammo bandolier, Yik had trussed the dead sniper up in a rough approximation of a shooter's pose.

Though the Battle Net was awash with horror stories of Black Sangheili up north, Yik knew the Shipmaster was unlikely to travel without the protection of a Sangheili mission specialist. Hierarchy and order were everything to them. Their battle doctrines were so disgustingly predictable that way.

Which was what made this next part so fun.

Yik pressed his eye to the scope once more, and with his free hand, triggered the switch on his wrist-com.

* * *

The low retaining wall Zerat was crawling alongside might have been up to waist height for an average Human, but to him it was barely enough to keep a being of his size hidden. Though his stealth field would ordinarily be enough to mask his presence in an open environment, the rain exacerbated the light-bending properties of his silhouette, exacerbating them to a point where it became too visible to be trusted. A skilled shooter would spot it easily, and though Zerat hated to admit it, this Loyalist had talent.

And so he wiggled along the ground like a worm, beam rifle tucked snugly under his chin, his breastplate scraping against the concrete.

He came to a section of wall which had collapsed inward, and gently propped his rifle upon the scattered rubble. Only the barest tip of his rifle's snout emerged from the hole in the wall.

The Shipmaster's warriors were back behind him to the left, and were on the opposite side of the wall. Though it brought him little pleasure, they would have to serve as bait for now.

The Sangheili scanned the horizon. Ahead was a field of clumped rubble and jagged craters, where buildings adjacent to the square had been blasted apart and scattered across the plain. Occasionally, the ruined footprint of a building would rise up from the ground, and it became hard to distinguish where the plaza ended, and where sections of unidentifiable ruins began.

Movement caught his eye. He jerked to sight on it, tense, and relaxed. It was a scrap of cloth caught on a gnarled loop of razor wire, flapping angrily in the wind. Zerat un-tensed with a sigh.

Then Yik activated the transmitter. Far in the distance, high up on a distant tower, a tell-tale purple light sprang to life.

Zerat reacted instinctively.

* * *

Perry, peeking out above the lip of his now altogether homely crater, saw the decoy-light first.

"There!" he cried out instinctively.

Zerat fired, the purple bolt betraying his body shape as he fired out over the wall. It was a perfect shot. The eye-scope popped and went out like a candle.

Only there was nothing there but a worn carcass.

A second shot lashed out in retaliation, from further to the right. Zerat yelped in pain and his blurry form toppled from view in a spray of blood. They heard the clatter as his Beam Rifle fell from his hands. Then nothing.

"No!" one of the Elites cried in disbelief, and after a start, Perry realised it was Vtan.

The Shipmaster had burst from cover, unloading

The ODST's had also seen the second shot, and erupted in a retaliatory deluge of suppressive fire. Murphy's Militia rose up, adding their fire to the mix. So too did the Elites, bellowing in vengeance for their fallen Brother.

A wave of small arms fire swept the clearing, prompting a mist of stone chippings and smoking ash to well up, obscuring their viewpoint. Incensed at feeling so helpless and exposed, the Separatists fired and fired, any previous concerns of ammo conservation a distant memory. In the distance, a small billboard collapsed inward, shredded into steaming shards by the fusillade.

"Cease fire!" Murphy made a slashing movement with his hand, "Cease fire damnit!"

Eventually the Humans' fire subsided, though Hepburn - nerves shredded - only did so because he had expended the entire magazine of his submachine gun. His finger clenched the trigger, and the dry clacking of the empty gun rang out continuously.

Eventually, weapon discipline returned.

They paused. The air churned with ash-grey gun-smoke, as well as the sooty blue discharge of plasma fire. Even the rain seemed to slacken in the face of such unrepentant fury.

Then three more Beam Rifle rounds sang out. Musgrave and two of his fellow Militia, the three most exposed, were caught this time. The rounded chef spun face down to the ground, a hole burrowed through his shoulder.

Everyone hugged cover once more.

"There's just no killing this bloody thing!" bawled Hepburn.

* * *

Yik cackled to himself in glee, breaking noise discipline despite himself.

Such fools! They had wasted so much ammo, and still hadn't come close to hitting him. He was enjoying himself now, taking his time, picking his targets with relish. He was like an Unggoy at a Food Teat.

It had been glorious. He had seen the Sangheili sniper go down with a final shout of indignant rage. He relished the sound, closing his eyes and replaying it in his mind again and again. Truly, that was a trophy worth savouring.

Still, it was time to finish what he had started. The Shipmaster was what he had come for, and this time he would make sure the shot was a killing blow. He would make one more shot, and that would be the end of the matter. There was no more time for mind games. Yik re-sighted his rifle, waiting for the Shipmaster to present himself.

Abruptly, the light dial of his scope dimmed down a notch.

Yik frowned and adjusted the light bloom filter. The weather was bad, but it was unusual for his scope to be that affected, particularly given its refined auto-senses. After all, Yik had calibrated it himself. He dialled the brightness up to maximum, and still there was interference. Most unusual. He took his eye away from the scope and looked up.

Standing astride his perch was a massive Black Sangheili, its face badly burned. One of the forward sloping fins of its helmet's mouthpiece had been blown away, and its left eye was a bubbled mass of cauterised flesh from where the beam had glanced him. Held high above its head was a massive boulder the size of Yik's entire torso. The Kig-Yar squealed in despair, not only because his fate was sealed, but also at the realisation that he - the Slayer of Men - had been bested.

The descending rock silenced his mewling with a wet _crunch_ of splintering bone.

"You should have finished what you started, Kig-yar." Zerat spat through bloodied mandibles.

The Sangheili paused to bend down and crack the Jackal's rifle over its knee, discarding the two broken halves with a dismissive sneer, before stalking back to rejoin his kin.

* * *

The journey back to the RV passed largely without incident. Weary and exhausted, Murphy's Militia were picked up by a convoy of friendly Warthogs operating under the direct orders of Major Abelev.

The Elites, for their part, declined a lift, choosing instead to continue their journey north to join their brethren on the Northern line. In these closing hours of the battle, their journey was a spiritual one, as much as anything else.

While Perry and the others snatched a precious handful of sleep in the bumping rear seats, the ODST Sergeant remained anxiously awake, desperate to get a handle on the wider strategic situation. The drivers did not answer any of Murphy's questions, however, remaining tight-lipped and stoic as they side-stepped his badgering questions. Evidently, even the ODST squad leader was on a need to know basis.

Murphy gave up asking questions eventually. He had been in this situation before, and had a feeling that - pretty soon - he wouldn't want to know anyway.

* * *

High above the planet, sitting proudly upon the throne once occupied by High Chieftain Torikus, Bralterakus smiled as he traced a stubby finger along the contours of the grav-throne's arm-rest; admiring the sheer craft of its gently sloping curves.

Parakh hovered just behind him, anxious and fidgeting. Bralterakus could taste the discomfort emanating from the smaller Brute, and it made him grin that much harder.

"Be still, Parakh." Bralterakus soothed, "This is the moment we have been waiting for, and I don't want your squirming to spoil it."

The holo-display before him was depicting two scenes simultaneously. One was the exterior of the Implacable Duty, relayed from one of the picket ships. It lounged above Crassus like a scarred whale. A stream of ships was drifting back up from the planet's surface, like pilot fish flitting about a deadly shark. They slid into the hangar bays, docking claws reaching out to meet them. They did this uncontested.

The second scene, which shimmered to the fore at a wave of Bralterakus' hand, depicted the interior of the hangar itself. Landing bays opened and troops were disgorged. They came out weapons raised, scurrying from loading crate to loading crate with carefully drilled precision. Bralterakus recognised the attack pattern at once.

"_Jiral'ja_ shock-troops," Bralterakus observed, "How flattering."

He swivelled the grav-throne to address Parakh.

"Open a channel. I would speak with these fools before they waste any more of the Hierarch's resources."

The smaller Brute nodded, briefly consulting a side display. "You may speak."

"Splendid." Bralterakus said, before raising his voice to address the warriors down on the hangar bay, "Those of you in the hangars, I call upon each of you to heed my words very carefully. Your lives may very well on it."

The _Jiral'ja_ specialists in the hangar froze as lowered their carbines, looking about toward where the voice had come from. Bralterakus continued.

"The High Chieftian's hatred of the Sangheili, though commendable, is wildly misplaced. Where we might have settled this trifle dispute with a single blink of this vessel's momentous firepower, we instead wasted dozens of the faithful; expending them in an unnecessary and costly conflict. In doing so, he has disgraced us all."

The _Jiral'ja_ exchanged looks, hesitant.

"Of course, Shipmaster Torikus is entitled to do so. It is the privilege granted by his rank, and indeed his right as High Chieftain. But I cannot in good faith allow such excess to continue unchecked. And faith, as the Holy Prophets say, supersedes all. This war is beneath us. Our faith is needed elsewhere. Join with me, brothers, and follow me into battles far more worthy of The Great Journey's chosen."

He hunched forward in his throne, fangs bared.

"I await your response.'

Bralterakus reclined in his chair, watching through half-slit eyes. One of the _Jiral'ja_ lesser-captains responded, his voice sounding tiny as it filtered in through the bridge's speaker system.

"Your words do not mask your ambition, Bralterakus! Some of us still have honour!"

Bralterakus raised an eyebrow. His response was dispassionate, laconic even. His hand hovered over one of the command control embedded in the armrest.

"Then you say nay?" he asked carefully.

"We say nay, traitor!" the _Jiral'ja_ brayed proudly, beating their fists against their chests. Others roused a hooting cheer in chorus. Bralterakus shrugged.

"A pity."

His meaty finger stabbed a single button embedded in the armrest of his throne.

The atmospheric shields protecting the hangar from the cold void outside vanished in an instant. There was a dreadful crump as the compartment decompressed, and Parakh could swear he felt the entire hull tremble. The _Jiral'ja _would have screamed, only there was no more air left to fill their lungs. Phantoms and Spirit dropships were torn from their restraints, smashing against the deck before spinning out to join their charges in the nothingness beyond. Bralterakus stroked another switch. The decompression shield shimmered back into view.

Within seconds, the hangar bays were empty. But for the odd smear where an unfortunate soul had bounced off the deck, or been pulped by a hurtling dropship, the _Jiral'ja_ might as well have never existed. Bralterakus clucked his tongue dismissively.

"Such a waste." He tutted, turning toward Parakh, "Now then, are the coordinates locked in?"

Parakh nodded, shocked at the callous display of murder he had just witnessed.

"A-as you ordered, Bralterakus."

Bralterakus eyed him coldly.

"I believe the word you are searching for is Shipmaster."

"Yes… yes Shipmaster." Parakh nodded, chastened, "Firing solutions have been plotted and forwarded to our remaining gun crews. The Human city shall be dust in a matter of seconds. Shall I give the order to fire?"

Bralterakus hesitated, the beginnings of an idea gestating in his calculating brain. He asked a question.

"The High Chieftain, he has no means of escaping the planet? No supplies?"

"No Shipmaster; with the destruction of his field base by Human insurgents some days ago, he is effectively stranded."

Bralterakus nodded, smiling to himself.

"Very well. Order the gun crews to stand down. Even if he survives inside the Human Citadel, I want him to enjoy his stay on that deserted wasteland. The sand shall scour the flesh from his bones, and he will die knowing that _I _was the one to succeed him."

Parakh nodded. He allowed himself a slight smile too. It was a shame to abandon a _Behemoth_-class Scarab, but an even greater shame to miss the look Torikus' face when they left him to rot.

"As you command, Shipmaster."

Bralterakus was unable to mask the indulgent grin at his new title.

"Set a course for our home. I suspect our Master will have need of us in the years ahead."

The Implacable Duty slunk away from Crassus, leaving the abandoned drop ships drifting toward the planet's surface. Hours later, they would burn up in the atmosphere, trailing the sky like burning comets. Within a day, all trace of his treason would be gone. With a strobe of its Slipspace engines, the Carrier vanished.

With it went an evil that humanity would not be encounter again for many years to come.

* * *

On the surface, Torikus said nothing. He was too busy shaking with silent rage. The Scarab's control hub was so silent, one could hear the pattering of rain against the roof of the hull. Farekus guarded his tongue - lest the High-Chieftain suddenly decided to follow through on his previous promise and remove it. This was not an unwarranted concern, as it was well known to be one of Torikus' favoured punishments.

Surprisingly, the tantrum never came.

For Torikus, despite all his fury and cruelty, was no fool. He realised the predicament he was in. Marooned on an unforgiving planet, with little chance of re-supply, and even slimmer chance of rescue, he knew it was the time for decisive leadership.

So he made a decision. The High Chieftain climbed out of his throne, and stepped forward toward the Battle Net's main com station.

As the pack-alpha spoke, his booming voice and calm deliberation reminded Farekus of why Torikus, and not he, was High-Chieftain. Nine feet tall, and massively powerful even without his gold-encrusted and bejewelled armour, Torikus was the embodiment of the Jiralhanae's proudest qualities: unquenchable strength, insurmountable determination and baleful rage. Truly, Torikus was a master of his race.

His words were matter of fact, and blunt enough to whet a dagger on:

"Line commanders, we are the victims of a scurrilous treachery." Torikus began, "The _Implacable Duty _has eloped in the hands of traitors, and we are stranded on this world. Your orders are simple: every warrior is to converge on the centre of the Human Citadel. It is crucial that we seize it, and break them utterly."

He then approached the pilots, a twinned pair of Kig-yar technicians. Rising up beyond the truncated remains of the Three Steeples, the Starport's main communications tower was visible, its roof blistering with AA batteries and jury-rigged defensive turrets.

"Make for the heart of the Human Ziggeraut. In the name of the Prophets, it falls or we do - there is no alternative."

* * *

Just as Torikus' order was given ,the Jiralhanae in the north began their final push in earnest. Right here, on this very night, the Battle for the Northern Crater would draw to its final, bloody conclusion.

Wary of potentially hidden Separatists beneath the earth, and fearful of falling prey to the same deception twice, the Jiralhanae plastered the approach to the crater with every piece of ordinance left available to them. Plasma grenades, bundles of spike grenades lashed together, even commandeered Human mortars, the bombardment lasted a solid five minutes - a significant amount of time, considering it was almost entirely provided by hand-held fragmentation devices and salvaged weaponry.

Nothing came of it but a lot of sound and fury, however, for the Separatists - realising such a ploy would not work a second time - had withdrawn to the comparative shelter of the far end of the Northern Crater, known colloquially as the Rampart.

The Jiralhanae's blood-howl preceded them.

The thirty surviving _Jiral'ja _commanded the charge, festooned on all sides by filth-encrusted Jiralhanae ground soldiers, two thousand in all. They were a scabby, wretched mob, who had spent the day praying to their gods, taking their fill of food and drink. No supplies were left unconsumed: nothing was conserved. Enflamed by the words of their commander Relgar, and minds infused with oaths of faith, they had assumed the mantle of holy warriors in the face of a Demonic enemy. Adorning the surface of their armour were primitive icons, painted on in wet clay and dried human blood. Slap-dash religious symbols of the Hierarchs declared their insurmountable belief and immortality in battle.

The effectiveness of such rituals would work would soon be revealed.

What they lacked in a cohesive strategy, they made up for it in monstrous determination and staggering hatred. Hollering and snarling, they clambered over the heaped carpets of their fallen allies, bounding forwards like the gorillas they so often resembled. Many had eschewed their weapons in favour of simple clubs, carved from discarded bones, which only heightened their primal appearance. They were determined to smite their hated foe, and to do so using the most basic means known to them: blind rage and bare fists.

The technology of the war had devolved considerably in the Northern Crater. Gone were the gleaming tanks and swooping aircraft, for there were scarcely any left. Gone too were the siege tactics and insidious minefields; all had been expended. Bralterakus' betrayal had left them with little choice but to conquer, or starve. It was survival in its purest form. As the sun set on the sixth day, there was little left but savage simplicity and brute force; a more primitive struggle, harkening back to a more primitive age.

It would prove no different on the other side of the conflict.. The Separatists were similarly out of ordnance, and had little more than the few scavenged weapons they had managed to take from the surrounding casualties. While most had a clip or three to their name, they had nothing of the Jiralhanae's numbers, nor indeed did they posses overwhelming physical strength. When it came down to bitter hand to hand, and with only five hundred Separatist defenders still standing, the odds would prove perilously unbalanced.

The only thing in the Separatists' favour was the terrain, that one comforting constant that had kept them alive throughout the entire campaign. In the most literal sense, they held the high ground. The Northern Crater's front section had all but collapsed in on itself during the frenzied fighting of the preceding week, making the approach more akin to a large ramp, atop which lay the smouldering wreckage of the fallen Scarab. Rukth had broken the forces under his command into shifts, and through a concerted effort of gargantuan scale and unstinting discipline, shorn up the approach into a nearly vertical slope. While it had been sloped before, now the gradient was greatly exaggerated. The incline of the slope was such that even a seasoned climber would likely need the assistance of a rope to ascend.

At the top of these earthworks crouched the Seperatists and their surviving Human allies. Many of them carried rocks and heavy pieces of shrapnel in their hands, anxious to conserve ammunition until it was absolutely necessary.

The horde approached. Standing atop the immense earthworks, spear in hand, Rukth Kil'kar addressed them all, voice steady and clear above the braying of approaching Jiralhanae.

"It seems our time here grows short, friends. Know this: it has been an honour to fight at your side. Before we close this battle once and for all, remember these three things. They have served me well in the past, and I feel they shall serve you now as well."

He tilted his chin upward, bellowing out in defiance.

"Never falter, my warriors!"

The horde filled the Crater. Chaotic blurts of Spiker shots whisked ineffectually through the air above their heads. Rukth, knowing the effective range of their weapons, didn't so much as flinch.

"Never doubt!"

The Jiralhanae horde reached the base of the slope, and started scrabbling. Relgar raised the spear high above his head, roaring out the signal.

"And most of all: never surrender!"

With a courageous yell, the defenders launched a torrent of rocks and debris down upon the marauding Brutes. Armour dented, skulls cracked and teeth shattered, slapping the assaulters back down atop their allies. Crude firebombs rigged from canteens doused in petrol were flung, igniting hair and setting the monsters alight with panicked whoops and shrieks.

The Jiralhanae host, too filled with hate to be affected by mass panic, pressed their dogged assault. They threw out harpoons affixed to leathery ropes, which bit deep into the revetment and pulled taught with a creak. Seeing this, Rukth drew a Spiker from his back, levelling it at the seething mass below. There was barely any need to aim.

"Open fire!"

* * *

Murphy's surviving men had spent the past hours in an exhausted dreamless sleep, toppling boneless into the nearest bunks available. Abelev had nudged Murphy awake himself, four hours later. Now, evidently, he had graduated to 'needed to know' status.

"Rise and shine, son. War's calling."

Murphy picked himself up, wincing at how stiff his back was. He'd made the mistake of falling asleep in his armour, and not for the first time. He stretched, tendons popping audibly, then scooped up his helmet, carrying it under the crook of his arm.

Fenton was already awake, positively glued to the steaming cup of coffee in his hands.

"Rest of the team is waiting for you in the briefing room."

"Com Tower?"

"Not quite."

It was then that Murphy developed a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Fifteen minutes later, the ODST were stood on the flight deck of the _Anchises_. The only non-Helljumper with them was the pilot, Warmonger. Perry stood beside them, looking remarkably ragged in comparison to the commandos: his flight suit had become a patchwork of scavenged armour and tattered fabric. A dust cover hung loosely around his neck, and reflective eye-goggles were pressed up on his forehead - an affectation borrowed from Hepburn, who was now languishing in the med-bay with an advanced case of trench foot. The commando's respect for the pilot had grown considerably over the past week: Perry had survived without the luxury of a fully-fitted combat suit, and was still standing to boot.

The Sergeant looked around, taking in the cavernous flight deck.

The vessel had been all but gutted since its arrival on Crassus, but the shell and core of the vessel remained intact. The only recent change in the décor was the noticeable absence of any of its ground-based vehicles. And, for that matter, most of its aircraft too. Warbling in the background were the inscrutable Separatist Engineers who had been keeping the UNSC war machine running from behind the scenes.

Communications around the Horizon Starport would have failed long ago were it not for their prodigious talent.

They were wheezing back and forth, carrying spare parts from one area to another.

Abelev paid them no heed, striking up a light and twitching his nose as he lit his cigar. That he had any left was bordering on the miraculous. Administrator Jennings stood at his side, a sour look of disgust pasted on her face. Evidently, she wasn't happy with whatever the major had cooked up.

Perry's fellow pilot, callsign Strongarm, hovered behind the two leaders, expression unreadable. She'd make one hell of a poker player, Murphy decided.

From the looks of everything, one thing was clear: this was Abelev's show.

"Welcome back, Helljumpers, Flight Officer Perry."

Those addressed saluted. Abelev nodded, hand shaking slightly as he returned it. Murphy had seen combat-stim cases before, but not like this. The change was so dramatic. He had hoped to keep his face neutral, but Abelev caught the glint of discomfort in his eye, and his lip curled in a slight sneer.

"And yes, before you comment, Warmonger; yes, I look like shit," Abelev growled, "Believe me I know."

"Good," Murphy chipped in, never missing a beat. "Because if you didn't say anything, I would have. Sir."

"Can it, Drop Meat; we're low on time, and I'm shit out of patience."

"Shutting up, Sir."

Abelev grunted that trademark grunt of his, then nodded his head, motioning for them to follow.

"Walk and talk, boys. Got one last task for you."

Perry, having spent years on this flight deck, wasn't sure where they were headed. After all, there wasn't much left in the hangar. Most of the Hornets had been consumed by the initial skirmishes, and what few Pelicans remained didn't seemed unlikely to ever see flight time again. Fuel was too low, and the associated mission risk too high. It was remarkable enough that some had even managed to make it back to the hangar.

"Apologies about the lack of a grand briefing, down time or fancy presentation slides, but believe me when I say there isn't time. Twelve minutes ago, we received word that the Brute's command Scarab set out on an intercept course for our Command HQ. It wants the Starport, and it wants it bad."

Abelev led them to a sealed compartment at the far end of the hangar. He stopped in front of it, fishing out a remote control form his pocket. The commandos arrayed themselves in a loose semi-circle around him, far too casual when compared to a normal unit. But then again, the ODST were no ordinary unit.

Abelev turned around, spreading his hands in an expansive shrug.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I can't dress this up. We've done about all we can in this fight, and Christ knows we're doing a darn sight better than I expected. But the short of it's now are never. The Brutes are coming this way, and from the looks of it, it's crunch time."

He keyed a switch on his remote. The compartment door behind him whirred upward slowly. Intent on receiving their orders, all eyes remained fixed on the major.

"We've got scattered resistance groups all over the city, but our ability to coordinate is shot to shit so long as that Scarab is still knocking around the heart of our defences. We can't hurt it, we can't slow it, and we sure as hell can't kill it, which leaves us with only one option."

The blast door clanged to a halt as it receded into the ceiling. A single Pelican stood in the bay, polished to a gleaming finish. It was Santos' bird, and it had been restored to factory spec. A trio of Separatist Engineers hovered beneath it, hooting to each other enigmatically, almost with pride.

"Sergeant Murphy. You're going in."

The ODST whooped and exchanged high-fives with one another. Perry looked visibly sick.

"And me, Sir?" Perry asked over the excited commandos, frowning as he stepped forward.

"Administrator Jennings doesn't like it, Warmonger, but I'm lumping you in with Murphy's squad for this one. They're a man short, and they're going to need a mission specialist: while I don't doubt their combat capabilities, their piloting skills ain't worth shit compared to yours."

Murphy clapped him on the shoulder, as hale and hearty as ever.

"Glad to have you aboard, Warmonger."

"But I don't have any jump training, let alone-"

"Grab the rope, bend your knees, close eyes, win. Simple really. Oh, gloves help too, unless skin-grafts are your thing…"

"Noted."

Murphy's head tilted slightly.

"You have run the simulations, right?"

"Yes, a long time ago, but it's a damn sight different than flying a Pelican."

"Wings, legs: same difference." Watanabe shrugged unsympathetically. The rest of the ODST mimicked the gesture in unison, their armour clicking with the gesture. Perry sighed, resigned to his fate.

"Loving that winning attitude, Perry." Fenton quipped.

"When do we get started, Sir?" Murphy asked.

"Get started?" Abelev grinned, "I wanted you in the air ten minutes ago, but then they told me I had to wake your sorry ass up."

Abelev checked his watch.

"Ten minutes prep time. Replace any gear you've lost, and somebody fetch the fly-boy some goddamn drop gear. I can smell him from here."

* * *

On the Northern Line, the Mgalekgolo held the line almost single-handed, trading rhyming couplets of Battle Poem amongst themselves. The section of revetment they were holding was at the centre of the rampart, where the ferocity of the Brute charge was most intense. The Humans behind them, reassured by their tremendous bulk, fought on confidently, spurred on by these two invulnerable pillars of war. They were a Pair, as they had for over six hundred cycles, and fought with all the experience that such years entailed. The Humans had dubbed them Hammer and Anvil, as a testament to the manner in which they pounded the foe between them.

And pound they did.

Another flurry of grappling harpoons flew toward Marjin Teleb Jambo. It swept its shield-guard through the air, sheering the ropes in half before they snagged home. A return swing splattered a row of Brutes who had the unfortunate timing to crest the slope at that precise moment. Their bodies tumbled back, cleft above the shoulders. Those ascending beneath them were soaked with the gore of their allies, and roared as they threw more harpoons, bellowing fiercely.

A follow up blast from Marjin's Assault Cannon silenced them.

Marjin Teleb Jambo snuffled in amusement, switching over to single fire and pelting out a salvo into the heaving mass of Loyalists. Seared giblets and flaming limbs popped up into the air like grisly fireworks, pattering down upon their allies. Still the Jiralhanae came, unfazed by the atrocious casualties they were suffering.

Twelve paces to its left, Galok Teleb Jorpal was proving every part the equal of its pair-mate. It brought one of its might armoured hooves down upon a Jiral'ja commando, whose jump pack exploded beneath the descending boot. Unfazed, Galok Teleb Jambo continued to trod the line, shrugging off the rain of needles and barbs which pinged off its armoured shield. Markin, the more cautious of the Pair, sent a cautionary rumble toward its fellow.

_Be mindful of the slope, Galok, _Markin sent, _Do not allow them to surround you._

_Always fussing, Markin, _Galok chided, _The Sangheili was wrong, this battle will be ours._

Markin knew his Pair-mate could often be impetuous in battle, and ruffled his spines in exasperation. There was no reasoning with It at times. Preoccupied with the battle at hand, Markin unloaded another salvo into the scrabbling Jiralhanae mass. A score of Jiralhanae were blown to ashes as the blast slammed home.

Galok thumped forward, shield raised as a hailstorm of needle-fire rolled harmlessly off his body plates. Three tremendous gouts of amber death chopped into the advancing horde, and the Hunter strode forward confidently.

More and more it killed, delighting in its own power.

The cracks beneath Galok's hoof were difficult to notice at first. Shallow spider-webs, they were hard to discern with the naked eye, easily lost amid the flying shrapnel and stinging dust thrown up by the tumultuous conflict.

Indeed, it was only when Galok had thundered out to the furthest edge of the rampart's top lip that the danger became apparent. Spider-webs became wider cracks, which in turn trembled to deeper fissures. Markin swung around, hooting a warning that came all too late.

With an explosion of rock and rubble, the centre of the Rampart gave way.

Galok tumbled down the slope, an azure boulder of clanking armour, flopping spines and sliding muck. A knot of Brutes were crushed by his descending mass, but seeing the advantage, those advancing up behind them piled themselves upon the Mgalekgolo. For a moment, the Hunter disappeared from view altogether.

Like a diver breaking the surface, Galok exploded upright amidst the sea of Brutes, their bodies hurtling away like pebbles from a landmine. The Hunter raked its cannon left and right, burning through dozens of the Loyalists. Unwavering, the fanatics swamped Galok, clumping around the Hunter's waist like quicksand, their toothed-weapons flashing. They chopped into the vulnerable flesh beneath the segmented plating, stabbing deep. Weeping orange gore bubbled up to the surface, and Galok mewled in pain, thrashing wildly. The Hunter pulverised everything it touched, but there were so, so many.

Then the Jiral'ja were upon the Mgalekgolo, rocketing up onto its back and clinging to its spines for dear life as they too stabbed downward.

With a final howl of anguish, Galok collapsed beneath the weight of its attackers.

Markin, watching helplessly from the top of the rampart, howled in disbelief. Its thoughts, once placid and serene, ignited into a berserk haze of red. The Hunter barrelled down into the Loyalist host, all thought of using its sophisticated weaponry forgotten. Its shield threw up great wells of blood in its wake, splintering its victims and chopping mighty Jiralhanae down like brittle firewood.

_**KILL THEM KILL THEM GALOK KILL THEM KILL THEM-**_

The Jiralhanae force broke and retreated, knowing that even their rage did not compare to that of a bereaved Mgalekgolo. Those who still carried weapons began unloading on the lone Hunter, who waded further outward into the sea of Brutes, isolated. The Hunter killed with such ferocity that he was soon left quite alone in a clearing wrought of its own slaughtering anger, surrounded on all sides by taunting Jiralhane. Struck from all angles, Markin's chipped armour began to fall apart.

Markin Teleb Jambo staggered forward, leaning into the weight of bullets like a man striding into a gale. The bullets began to cut deeper, past the armour.

_**GALOK NO MUST KILL KILL YES KILL THEM FOR HONOUR FOR HUMAN GIRL YES**_

Markin's fuel rod cannon blew apart under the fusillade, the liquid fire spilling down onto the earth. The leaking plasma threw up a great searing cloud of smoke, and yet still Markin strode forward, functioning on little more than it's own enraged grief.

_**KILL THEM, KI-**_

A single carbine bolt toppled Markin, who pitched forward with a resounding metallic clank. For a moment the entire battle stopped, all participants seemingly dumbfounded that the second Hunter had finally fallen.

Relgar handed the carbine back to one of his subordinates, before raising his voice and pointing toward the massive gaping hole in the rampart's centre.

"Now, my warriors, the advantage is ours!"

He raised his voice, his single word restarting the mayhem.

"Into the breach! Charge!"

* * *

Rukth's hooves barely touched the ground as he raced for the gap left in the Hunters' wake. The other Sangheili were hot on his heels, weapons ready, flitting in and out of their stealth shrouds to discourage the Jiralhanae from hitting them. His spear was clenched in his hand, eager to spill more blood.

"Form up, defensive spread!"

They ignited their Kig-yar energy shields, which sprang into life with a flaring hum. The shields locked in tight around each other, forming an impassable wall of shimmering energy. The Sangheili plugged the gap, crowding themselves in the heart of the gap left by Galok's fall. The combat Specialists settled low into a crouch, the intact sides of the rampart rising up beside them like mighty cliffs. The world was cast in a purplish-blue filter through the translucent shields, the oncoming mob distorting as though through a fish-eye lens. Rukth's warriors tensed their muscles, awaiting the crunch.

"On my signal, push." Rukth said, never taking his eyes from the approaching enemy.

The Brutes, distorted as they were through the shield, were becoming less warped as they closed. His nostrils flared as they took in the foul stink of their fur, the scent of rotten meat thick on their stale breath. Rukth's spear rested on the top lip of his shield. They were less than twenty paces away now. Fifteen paces, ten.

Five.

The Jiralhanae smashed into the Sangheili formation like a car hitting a wall. There was a bone-jarring jolt, and Rukth had to dig his heels into the earth to prevent being knocked from his feet. Amazingly, not one of the Sangheili faltered. Above them, the Humans opened fire, pouring bullets down over the top of their allies into the compacted Brute masses. Seeing his moment, Rukth gave the order.

"Push!" Rukth roared.

The Sangheili shouldered forward, left leg before right. They grunted and snarled as they toiled against the crushing weight of the Jiralhanae, who were being slaughtered like cattle by the Human's answering fusillade. Packed in tight as they were, many of the Brutes were dead on their feet, their corpses pinned in place by the weight of the press.

"Once more, my Brothers!" Rukth urged, "Push!"

The Sangheili dug their feet in even tighter, straining as they sought to follow their commander's orders. It was impossible to see anything. Before them was an unending wall of fur, and their shields juddered as the Brutes heaped blow after blow against them. Eventually, the weight of the Brutes became too great, and the line did not budge. Their strength would only get them so far.

Their weapons would have to do the rest.

"Engage, my Brothers, engage!"

The Sangheili held a number of scavenged Brute weapons in their hands; a varied collection of Maulers, Spikers and Rippers, all of which were thrust over the tops of their shields and unloaded until empty, and then discarded without a second thought.

Then they drew their melee weapons; long knives and daggers for the most part, fashioned from the detritus spawned by the near-constant fighting. Rukth's spear ploughed through armour and flesh alike, the former Gravity Hammer's smooth metal having been fashioned into a biting edge the likes of which was unmatched on Crassus, save for the Shipmaster's blade itself. Eventually, it became hopelessly lodged in one of its victims, and Rukth was forced to relinquish it temporarily, lest he be dragged out after it.

"Plant shields!" Rukth ordered, sinking his own into the muck and kneeling down behind it. "Prepare grenades!"

The Sangheili dropped their melee weapons, priming a plasma grenade in each fist.

"Release!"

The plasma grenades pulsed like fireflies as they flitted through the air, searing themselves onto the hides of the Brutes before exploding. The Brute's charge lost its gusto and collapsed, the Jiralhanae scrambling away from the pluming explosions that decimated their kin. With a satisfied grunt, Rukth retrieved his spear, which was impaled in a Jiralhanae slumped over the surface of his shield. The Sangheili's chest heaved from the exertion of it all, and as he leant heavily on the spear as he watched the Brutes muster for another charge.

Elsewhere across the Northern Rampart, the Humans had been less successful without the Elites' support. Rukth could hear their desperate cries as the Jiralhanae tried once more to crest the rampart's edges. Rukth knew that there was little point in holding the middle ground, if the rest of the battle had already been lost. He would need to do more with less.

"Go, my Brothers, aid the Humans. Make sure they do not break."

"But what of you, Brother?" Klal asked, "Will you not join us in battle?"

Rukth's mandibles twitched a wolfish smile. He swept his hands across the blunt side of the spear, swiping the excess blood away.

"I shall hold here, friend Klal. Your talents are needed elsewhere."

"The fighting sounds pitched to the west. Be sure that you do not miss out on your share of the glory, Commander." the warrior Azul cautioned.

Rukth nodded.

"Fear not, Azul. There will be ample Brutes for me to keep me entertained."

The Elites chortled to one another, before clambering away to provide guidance where guidance was needed most. Then Rukth stood alone behind the line of planted shields, hooves planted atop a carpet of churned muck, discarded weapons and broken enemies.

A dozen Jiral'ja soared through the air toward him. Behind them, a countless pack of Brutes bounded in to support. Rukth twirled his spear with a flourish and dropped low into a fighting crouch, eyes narrowed.

Victory or death; the Covenant would find the price of seizing this breach all too costly.

* * *

Relgar vaulted over the rampart's top lip, his Ripper shredding a trio of Humans who came at him with little more than entrenchment tools and misplaced bravery. Another Human ran forward swinging a rifle butt to little effect. Relgar snarled and broke the weakling's jaw with a dismissive backhand slap, before flinging him over the edge down into the waiting claws of the Jiralhanae below.

The Jiral'ja Captain was in the thick of it, throat horse from shouting orders, though in truth there was little that needed directing here. Half of his warriors had been slain on the approach to the rampart, true, but that still left the guts of a thousand frenzied warriors to quash the defenders and make this battle his.

He helped his warriors scale the slope, before turning his attention to the central breach. It was hard to see as assaulting Jiralhanae bumped and jostled past him to get to the enemy, but he caught enough to know that his skills would be needed there.

Once more he gained a glimpse of the Black Sangheili, and its terrifying prowess.

Relgar watched as his Jiral'ja flew down onto the breach, ululating war cries. They came in hand to hand, claws outstretched, the twinned wrist-blades of their Rippers extended. The Sangheili's spear twirled in a motion too fast to follow, and two leading Jiral'ja collapsed backward, disembowelled. Then the Sangheili vanished, re-materialising as his spear slammed through back of the third Jiral'ja's jump pack.

The rest of the Jiral'ja, choosing expediency over bravado, opened fire with their Rippers.

The Sangheili crouched and flicked a button affixed to the wrist of his combat chassis.

A luminescent Kig-Yar defence field blossomed to life, deflecting the scintillating spikes. Not losing momentum, the Black Sangheili spun forward, slashing the curved edge of his shield across the face of a Jiral'ja, before spinning around and burying his spear in the belly of the next Brute.

On and on the killing dance went. Rukth flowed like water, a lethal blend of the graceful and the deadly; chopping and slicing and dodging. With each kill he made an effortless mockery of the Jiralhane elite. As one of the Brutes grabbed the shaft of the Elite's spear, Rukth simply let go, choosing instead to reach forward and snap the beast's neck with his bare hands. Another swung a heavy pike at Rukth's shield, only to find that the shield wasn't there. Rukth ducked under the guard of his overbalanced opponent, placing his wrist up against the throat of the Jiral'ja warrior. The re-activating shield struck the Brute's head clean off.

Rukth kicked his spear back up in his hands, killing another Jiral'ja as he snapped the blade into a defensive guard. Not one of the Brutes had yet managed to get past him.

Thumping his chest with anger, Relgar rocketed down into the throng of Jiralhanae, shoving them forward, anxious to close in and finish this himself.

It seemed he would have to wait his turn. The rank and file Brutes had began pouring over the line of energy shields, clambering past them or tearing them down outright. Now Rukth was more hard pressed, and for all his skill found himself giving ground as he was forced on the back foot. Still, every step backward was repaid with the maimed body of a decapitated Brute. Relgar raised his Ripper to take a shot, but two of his own warriors were in the way. Growling in frustration, he shoved forwards.

Then Rukth's back struck the sheer wall behind him. He was out of space.

He responded by doing the unexpected, leaping forwards and embedding his spear in the chest of the nearest advancing Jiralhanae. The Elite, using the momentum of the strike, pole-vaulted forward on the end of his spear, barrelling into a cluster of Jiralhanae shock troops and rolling upright, face to face with an altogether surprised Jiral'ja commando.

Rukth grinned and grabbed Relgar by the collar, pulling him forward. Then he punched the activation rune on the _Jiral'ja_ Captain's breastplate. The two of them hurtled up into the air, flying back out of the crater, safe from the encroaching Brutes. Cheated, the Jiralhanae redoubled their efforts to catch him, attacking the steep climb with powerful, skilled hands.

The two warriors hit the ground with a graceless crunch of armour. Rukth let go and rolled clear as Relgar's malfunctioning jump pack dragged him further away from the fight in a messy tangle of limbs, rolling and bouncing off the sand. Rukth rose to his feet, hurrying back to defend the summit of the breach, spear in hand.

Relgar clawed at his jump back's control switch, finally managing to hammer the activation rune to 'inert'. His armour was dented and his pelt ruined; a shaggy mess of torn skin and spilled fuel. On top of all of this, it looked as though the Black Sangheili - beleaguered as he was at the top of the Rampart - had clean forgotten about him. The affront to his honour was overwhelming.

"You shall pay for such insolence, Sangheili" he rasped, extending his Ripper's wrist-blade to its maximum length. Relgar rushed forward with a fleetness of foot surprising for his bulk.

The Black Sangheili twirled the spear like a quarterstaff, removing a pair of Jiralhanae hands that gripped the top ledge of the rampart. He snapped the weapon back into a striking stance, then jabbed it forward through the forehead of the next oncoming Brute, removing the spear with a sharp twist. Whirling the staff over his head, he spun again, slashing two more opponents back down the tumbling slope.

This fighting style was known as _Vraniar Lok'ar _- The Way of the Spear - and it was prized among the Sangheili people. Used by the once-fabled honour guard of the Covenant, it was a perfect marriage of form and efficiency, allowing a practitioner of the art to strike at multiple opponents in sleek, deadly spins of the staff.

So caught up in the spinning dance of death, Rukth failed to notice Relgar rushing up behind him, his wrist blade poised to strike. Relgar paused, debating on whether or not to announce his presence. It would be fitting, he thought, to have the records remember his words prior to felling the Sangheili hero. For posterity.

And so he stood slightly taller, and said:

"For the death of my kin, know that it is I - Relgar Orikos of the Pack-Clan Taricator, who shall claim your life."

The Black Sangheili didn't even notice, busy as he was smashing the nose of another ascending Brute with a whirling elbow.

"Heretic!" Relgar howled in indignant anger, incensed at being ignored. He leapt forward. "You shall-"

A return sweep of the blurring spear loped his head off mid-sentence. The body stood on its own for a moment, before collapsing sideways in the sand.

Far too busy defending himself, Rukth never even noticed the Brute was there, but for the slightest extra tension in the spear's shaft. Sparing a surprised glance behind him, Rukth shrugged and continued killing.

And so ended the life of Relgar Orikos: burnt, headless and quite forgotten in a shallow ditch on the outskirts of a ruined city.

* * *

Rukth's warriors had held the line admirably. Each one had slain hundreds of the foe, dispatching them with all the lethality he had instilled in them over the cycles. Heroes all, the Sangheili deserved to live, to survive this storm and emerge from it victorious. They had earned the right to be remembered in the Battle Poems of their people a hundred times over. And yet war is a fickle thing, and all too rarely does it show mercy. The Elites fought courageously, but heroism can only last for so long in the face of unstoppable brute force.

One by one, they began to die.

Rukth saw Azul standing astride a carpet of enemies, one of his arms missing below the elbow. Still he fought on, fuelled with battle hate. As ten of the horde reached out to drag him down, Azul snatched up one of the Jiralhanae's spiked grenades, braining one of the Jiralhanae with a bloodthirsty snarl. The blast consumed them all.

He saw Klal take six of the Brutes with twin lashes of his Spikers, before being hacked to the floor by another dozen Brutes. Qnar, bellowing in defiance, activated his last remaining sachet of plasma grenades, body-tackling a Jiral'ja and tumbling down into the midst of the ascending army. Scores were killed by the resulting explosion.

One by one, the Elites fell, each exacting a terrible price before they themselves succumbed.

Soon, only Rukth was left. Of the original two thousand Brutes, there was a pitiful three hundred left lurking at the base of the Rampart, but that still far too many.

There would be no victory today.

The battle had drawn into its final, bitter phase.

"My Brothers!" he wept, "In their blood, I shall see you avenged!"

He leapt down into the heart of the Jiralhanae, spear whirling.

* * *

Four hours later, Vtan arrived. His Elites had cut their way across the entire city, fighting where they had to, outright avoiding where they could. It had been a brutal journey, but they had all arrived intact.

The Northern Crater was no longer a battlefield. It was a tomb. The silence was eerie. There had been other battles in the Crassus Campaign, ones of larger scale and most certainly of more strategic merit, but this fight was different. No other battle encapsulated the sheer enmity between the two sides. Though his fellow Elites would deny it vehemently, the Shipmaster could not see the conflict as anything less than a religious war. It had the fervour of such. Vtan picked his way over the bodies of Humans and Jiralhanae, appalled at the sheer slaughter on display.

It was at the base of the slope that he found Rukth, laying atop a small mountain of slain Brutes.

He was barely recognisable. His once glossy armour was battered, torn and outright missing in places, and what little remained intact was coated in gore, Jiralhanae and Sangheili alike. His own blood wept openly from a dozen wounds across his body. The flesh of one of his arms had been peeled like a ripened fruit, the bone glinting out from beneath. Rukth's prized spear had been cracked in two, the two bladed ends embedded to the hilt in the throats of two separate _Jiral'ja_. Evidently, he had resorted to his bare hands after that.

The battle frenzy had worn off, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, laboured breaths.

Even so, Rukth smiled to see his friend again.

"Well met, Shipmaster."

Vtan hurried forward, dropping to his knees beside his friend.

"Brother, I am sorry, I have arrived too late-"

"Just in time, old friend." Rukth corrected, reaching up and pulling Vtan closer. He held Vtan's stare without blinking, hissing through broken mandibles, his devotion unquestionable.

"We denied them, Shipmaster. Every single one of us. To the last breath, to the last ounce of strength. On the blood of our ancestors, we did not falter. All of them, Shipmaster. I commend every single one of them. Legends all."

"I could not have asked for anything more, old friend." Vtan said softly.

Rukth released Vtan's collar, settling back, his pleased nod achingly weak. He was calmer now.

"I have no regrets, Friend Vtan. It has been an honour serving you. Truly, I could not have asked for a better death."

He beckoned Vtan to lean closer.

"I have but one final request."

"Name it." Vtan said without hesitation, "On my life it shall be done. I swear it."

"Then avenge us, Brother." Rukth whispered fiercely, "Avenge us all."

And so, Rukth 'Kilkar, veteran of a hundred battles over a dozen campaigns, closed his eyes and was no more.

Vtan's howl of anguish was heard across the entire battlefield. All across the city, the Jiralhanae's hair stood on end, sensing an unexpected, irrational prick of fear. Even High Chieftain Torikus - nestled high in the strong room of his Scarab - felt it, and frowned, perturbed.

Something had awoken.

Something terrible.

* * *

They had been in the air for five minutes when Perry told them to change course. The pilot looked different, and not just because of the sleek Combat Suit the ODST had kitted him out with. He looked wiser now, more confident. Nevertheless, he was still taking having his ear worn off by Murphy.

"You better not be wasting my time, Warmonger," the commando warned, hovering behind him like a scolding aunt, "Abelev wants us landing on that Scarab this time yesterday."

"Noted."

"I mean it, man; we could use Vtan's help, no doubt about it, but orders are orders, and our fuel budget isn't exactly plentiful. Any more detours and I'm going to have to get out and push."

"Noted." Perry was only half listening as he scanned the readout in front of him. "Bear three degrees to port, Strongarm, that should put you down over the crater."

"Roger that," Santos complied. "ETA?"

"Two minutes."

"I'll get you there in one."

The Pelican was hurtling down at nearly street level, anxious to avoid attracting excessive unwanted attention. It was a testament to Santos' piloting skill that they barely managed to avoid clipping the ruined buildings to either side.

"You sure you'll know where to find them?" Murphy asked, his impassive faceplate studying him. Perry was used to the commando's intimidating non-stare now, and met it openly.

"Not only am I sure, Murphy, I'm also betting one very important thing."

"And what's that?"

"I'm betting that as much as you want to get a shot at the Brute HQ, he's going to give an arm and a leg to get the same thing."

"…just so long as it's his arm." Murphy grinned.

"ETA, thirty seconds." Strongarm reported.

* * *

After a full minute, Zerat finally spoke up. He and the other Elites had kept a solemn distance, not wishing to intrude on their Shipmaster's grief. The sniper's sorrow at having lost his squad mates was no less keen than Vtan's, but Rukth and the Shipmaster had been friends since childhood. Certain protocol had to be respected.

After a full minute, he dared to speak up.

"Your orders, Shipmaster?"

Vtan remained by Rukth's side, head bowed.

"We kill them. We kill each and every one of them. And not just here, Brothers. No, we wipe them out. Every colony, every world. Every mother's cub."

He rose to his feet, turning around to face them. Vtan gestured expansively to the surrounding carnage.

"_This_ is what The Great Journey has brought us to. _This_ is where The Path leads. So long as the Jiralhanae and their foul Prophets exist, there can be no peace."

Vtan 'Arume clenched his fists, his sword hissing to life reflexively.

"In Rukth's name, I would see their Journey _ended_."


	30. Day Seven: End Game

_"Avenge us, Brother. Avenge us all."_

- last words of Rukth Kilakh

* * *

Hazily back-lit by the budding dawn sun, the _Ubiquitous Triumph_ was a bloated, thundering beast. Its once-gleaming chrome underbelly was now bruised a charred black, but it had weathered the storm of Crassus' defenders relatively unfazed, and even now stomped its way for the heart of the Human Citadel without a moment's pause. Gun turrets bristled across its flanks, and its mighty feet smashed clean through any buildings hapless enough to be caught in its path, demolishing them in clouds of spurting smoke and crumbling stonework.

It was 6:52 AM on the morning of the seventh day.

By midday, the war would be decided once and for all.

* * *

The main strategic display presented a live video feed of the Starport's Communications Tower.

All around it, trenches and gun posts had been carved into the open hardpan, but the positions themselves remained vacant. Indeed, there wasn't even a single human defender anywhere to be seen across the entire landing zone. And yet there the defences stood, abandoned and empty; their guns silent, their redoubts unmanned.

Meanwhile, Jiralhanae skirmishers had arrived on the far end of the display, a swarm of cobalt blue ants in the distance. They swept forward, instinctively taking cover and taking pot shots at the Tower, scurrying forward from position to position. They met no resistance.

On the command deck of the _Anchises_, Abelev sat in the main command seat, hunched forward as he studied the display. His nose was inches from the screen. He was noisily chewing on a unlit cigar, his shaking hand beating out a nervous tattoo across his thigh.

"Message from Strongarm," Amanda reported, "They have the Elites and are en route to the target, ETA six minutes."

"The Scarab's position?"

"Five minutes from maximum projected firing range."

"Good." he said, eyes never wavering from the display. "Now it's time to see if our little ruse works."

* * *

Aboard Strongarm's Pelican, the ODST prepared for war. Once more into the breach, as Abelev had put it. But not to defend, this time, or to repel or retreat or to flee - but to attack and conquer.

To win.

Murphy snapped off a broken shoulder pauldron, which had been all but chewed away by plasma fire, before slapping a new one in place with a securing click. He doffed his helmet, meticulously inspecting the connections which fed its VISR HUD to the Combat Suit's embedded electro-nerve circuitry. Satisfied, he sealed the helmet back in place, before scooping up his shotgun and pumping it with a meaty clack. He was ready.

Abelev had given the shock troopers the choicest selection of hardware from their remaining weapons cache. For once, they would not be fighting this battle ill-equipped. The commandos had not only replaced any damaged equipment, they also swapped out mid-range weaponry in favour of a CQB (_Close Quarters Battle_) load out. BR-55's and DMR rifles were slung, and assault rifles swapped, to be replaced with close range pump action shotguns and semi-auto riot guns. Going toe to toe with Brutes was no cake walk, and they needed all the stopping power they could muster. By the time their feet hit the ground, they would be operating at 100% combat efficiency - there was no room for equipment error on this drop.

The fate of the entire colony depended on it.

The Elites, having little supplies of their own, picked over the ODST's leftovers like curious tradesmen, turning the unfamiliar weapons over in their hands with bemused warbles. For the most part they remained as they were, choosing to do without, though Zerat in particular opted for one of the spare riot guns. The massive Elite following Murphy's example by racking the pump.

"Delightfully simplistic," the sniper chuckled, absently rubbing at the scalded flesh where his eye used to be. He knew full-well he would have to adapt the way he fought, with such a hampering wound.

Perry, sitting back in his seat and watching them all make ready, couldn't help but notice how similar Zerat looked to the fallen specialist, Rukth.

Zerat caught him staring.

"Is something the matter, Perry-Human?"

"No…" Perry shook his head, tracing a finger over his eye, "Your scar. I was just thinking it makes you look a lot like your comrade, Rukth."

Zerat gave a solemn nod in return.

"Though I expect the subtleties of Sangheili markings to be lost upon your kind, there could be no finer compliment. I shall bear your words to battle with pride."

Perry nodded, unsure of what to say in response to that. It was difficult to relate to warriors who cared for nothing but honour and battle. Small talk was definitely not their strong point.

He turned toward Vtan, who sat in a moody silence, his entire presence spiky with fury. The Elite really seemed torn up, his narrowed eyes studying the floor, his hand unconsciously tracing the inert hilt of his Power Sword with anticipation.

"Shipmaster…"

"Speak, Friend Perry." Vtan invited, voice low, "Though my humour is black, I bear no resentment toward my allies. Only the enemy warrants anger."

Perry nodded, then voiced the question that was on his mind.

"I wanted to ask you about the Scarab… are you sure I can pilot it?"

Vtan lifted his glowing eyes from the floor, fixing Perry with a look of unwavering intensity.

"I have the utmost faith in your abilities."

"But the Type 48, it's got to be different than a traditional Scarab."

"The Jiralhanae are many things, but imaginative is not one of them. I would expect the overall structure of the vessel to be the same."

"But what about the security? Won't they have guards?"

Though Perry couldn't see it, Sangheili's mandibles twitched, showing the equivalent of an eager grin.

"Leave that to us, friend Perry."

Both the ODST and the Elites murmured their approval.

Perry sat back, brow furrowed, not entirely reassured.

Then again, here he was, crammed in a troop bay with a collection of the most dangerous killers on the entire planet, hell-bent on diving headfirst into a walking fortress filled with fanatical, flesh-eating aliens… _why on earth would he feel safe?_

* * *

Aboard the _Ubiquitous Triumph_, Torikus paced to and fro, impatient in his desire to see this finished. He would need to rebuild this city in his own image if his forces were to survive this war intact. Only then could they last long enough to await rescue and expose the traitor Bralterakus. Torikus growled, once again kicking himself for having left the mutinous gunnery officer in charge of the Implacable Duty's repairs. He had crucially underestimated the Jiralhanae's raw ambition.

Today would prove whether that mistake was fatal.

The High-Chieftain's mind buzzed with the logistics of it all. The Humans would have to be enslaved, naturally, and put to work as both a source of labour and a source of food. They would be wasted wretches by the time their tiny frames gave out, but they would have to suffice. Libations would have to be made to the Hierarchs, of course, but that was unlikely to prove difficult. There would be no shortage of blood when Torikus succeeded.

The only crucial matter now was getting the Humans to surrender, rather than destroy them outright. Doing that meant breaking their spirit, rather than crushing their bones. He looked up at the Human Communications Tower, rising up in the far distance. Its destruction would ensure their victory.

A victory which lay barely four minutes from his grasp.

With one decisive blast from his Type-48's weapon projectors, their spirits will have broken.

And as his subjects, the Humans will have wished they chose death.

They huddled in a circle, leaning in toward Murphy as he went over the plan again.

"Let's go over it again. Strike Team Alpha - that's your squad, Shipmaster, and your lads, Fenton - you'll secure the main deck. Bravo, you're with me. Follow me in, seize the bridge, and keep Perry alive. Perry goes down, one of the Elites takes his place."

Perry, while not a tremendous fan of being expendable, was even less of a fan of being replace-able, and his expression soured accordingly. Murphy was studying each of them intently, riot gun locked and loaded. He'd depolarised his visor, and his eyes considered them carefully.

"We move hard and fast. No mistakes, no hesitation. Got it?"

A series of nods answered him, human and Sangheili alike.

"Good." Murphy sat back, "That's it then."

Murphy checked the timer on his wrist display. Three minutes until go time.

"Now all we do is wait for Abelev's signal."

* * *

The Super-Scarab had reached the edge of the Starport's concourse. It tramped toward the Starport, paying no heed to the gutted _Anchirses _at the far end of the clearing. It was a gutted wreck, and no Humans had been sighted near it, nor had any defences been erected around it.

If only they knew.

"Here he comes." Amanda murmured quietly. Sarah stood by her side, colouring book forgotten in her hands as she looked on, transfixed.

"Big bastard, isn't he?" Abelev glowered.

"Ugly too." Sarah contributed.

Nobody else on the command deck spoke. Everything hinged on this one moment.

"Tell Murphy to standby."

Abelev leaned forward in his seat, watching with baited breath. Amanda checked the time again.

Two minutes.

* * *

Barely sixty seconds later, the Scarab stomped forward, its beetle-like weapon systems screeching open as they focused on a target lock.

"Firing solution plotted, High-Chieftain." Ferikus announced.

Torikus settled back in his grav-throne, wishing to be comfortable for his moment of triumph. He chose his next words carefully, savouring each syllable. Tasting his victory.

"Fire all weapons." he ordered.

Ferikus, frowned, twisting about from his control station. A single energy projector would have done the job. Firing all three, along with the rear-mounted plasma battery, seemed excessive, even for Torikus.

"My Lord?"

"I said fire, damn you!" Torikus bellowed, pummelling his fist against his arm-rest.

The _Ubiquitous Triumph_ planted its massive clawed feet wide, bending low on its joints to brace itself. The surrounding Jiralhanae shock-troopers dove for cover as the Scarab emitted a warning howl.

Its three bulbous forward projectors irised open , glowing as they prepared to fire. The interior of the weapons' focusing lenses whirled inward. A rising thrum filled the air, reaching a crescendo that echoed across the entire city.

With a blast that shook the world, the Ubiquitous Triumph fired.

The middle section of the Communications tower didn't so much explode as it did evaporate. The top of tower plummeted straight down, an avalanche of molten rubble. Then the rest of the Scarab's weapon batteries opened up, plasma turrets raking back and forth across the rubble.

Within thirty seconds, the entire tower had been reduced to a bubbling crater of brittle glass.

The Jiralhanae roared in triumph.

At last, victory!

* * *

"Now." Abelev said quietly.

The _Anchises'_ single functioning turret was a wreck, a shell of its former self, really. Only skeletal framework and the most basic firing mechanism remained: the Huragok Engineers had had scant little to work with. The restoration had taken all of their talent, every single scrap of spare resources. Even with their prodigious talent, it took three days of incessant toil to get the turret to even unfold from its berth.

That it managed to successfully fire without blowing up half of the frigate surprised even them.

But fire it did. The single shell, intended for ship to ship space-borne operations, deafened the Jiralhanae ground troops and shook the entire frigate as it ripped through the air. Any surviving windows left in the entire city burst inward from the pressure. It was so loud that it took a moment to register that it had successfully struck the Scarab, smashing its rear-mounted anti-air projectors clean off. Any guards posted on the top deck were atomised in an instant.

The Scarab stumbled like a drunk at closing time, rollicking on its haunches as it staggered; valiantly trying to maintain its balance. It managed to right itself, but even then, it was clear that its primary form of air defence had been decisively crippled.

From the far side of the clearing, the remaining human ground forces sprang out of their concealed positions, rushing forward to take up arms in the prepared defences around the ruined Com-Tower. All across the side of the Anchises, blast doors and side hatches opened up, and hidden artillery pieces - the last the humans had at their disposal - began to vomit out shells toward the vast Covenant army.

Caught by surprise, it took a moment for the Brutes to respond, but respond they did. They charged full on toward the human frigate. Hundreds were cut down on either side, as the final battle began.

Abelev snatched up the com headset from Amanda, yelling the order himself.

"Murphy, mission is a go! I say again, mission is a go!"

The major threw down the headset and started cackling manically. Abelev flopped back in his chair and lit up a cigar, taking an indulgent drag. He chomped on it noisily, an infectious grin plastered across his face.

"It's all on you now, boys."

* * *

Fifty metres above the Ubiquitous Triumph, the Pelican's rear hatch yawned open. Sucking air rushed in, tugging at the loose straps of their webbing, batting the soldiers as they clung to the overhead guard rail. The early morning light rebounded off their visors, and would have blinded Perry, were it not for his protective visor, which auto-tinted to counteract the startling glare.

Perry, hyper-ventilating at the immense drop, barely able breath in his stuffy helmet. He felt clumsy in the Combat Suit, its bulkiness utterly alien to him. Murphy, standing at the mouth of the drop, turned back towards them, shouting to his men over the howling wind.

"Helljumpers, where do we go?"

"Wherever we're needed!" they boomed in unison.

"And how do we get there?"

"Feet-first, Straight to Hell!"

"Damn straight." Murphy's visor re-polarised, and he flung the coiled rope over the edge of the landing ramp, which wobbled as it unravelled. Perry gripped the rope, feeling it in his hands. The last thing he heard was Murphy's order.

"Go, go, go!"

They leapt.

* * *

Smoke was steaming from his gloves as Perry shot down the embarkation line, zipping right into the belly of hell itself. The entire horizon spun beneath him, the carpet of Covenant warriors rushing ever closer. Snatches of ground fire from Covenant ground forces spat up at them, passing miles on either side. His belly was caught in his throat as he hurtled downward, desperately trying to remember the parting advice Fenton had given him barely two minutes ago.

_Bend your knees and roll into the fall, bend your knees and roll into the fa-_

The ground leapt up and slapped into his feet, his own momentum mocking any attempt at technique. He didn't manage to roll at all - the force of the impact did it for him. His helmet smacked into the side of the deck with a crack. The visor split across the front, and for a moment he was completely blinded. Perry vomited. He rolled onto his back, hauling his helmet off and spluttering for air.

He looked up and panicked. ODST were still hurtling down the zip-line, perfectly poised and coming straight at him. It seemed strange, but he was moving. Perry glanced behind him, and realised Fenton was dragging him clear of the drop zone.

"What did I tell you about rolling?" Fenton grunted, letting him go and drawing his riot gun and sweeping the LZ.

"I-" Perry was cut off as a hatch on the ruined spine of the Scarab snapped open, disgorging _Jiral'ja_ guards. They carried large ceremonial staves, indicative of their role as honour guards. Perry fumbled for his pistol as one of the Brutes charged toward him, spear set to skewer the pilot square in the belly.

Vtan's descending feet crushed the Brute's skull as he dropped from the zip-line into a crouch, sword primed and eager for blood. He snarled and charged forward, engaging three of the Brutes without a heartbeat of hesitation.

Not for the first time, Perry was glad to be on the Shipmaster's good side.

The white Elite dodged past the first Brute's thrust, gripping the spear at the top of the shaft and shaving the Brute's arms above the wrists with a clean downward slice of his sword. Vtan brushed past the shrieking guard, who dropped to his knees, stumped wrists jetting blood. A dismissive backward slash of the sword silenced him.

The remaining two Brutes paused, exchanging worried glances at how easily their comrade had been dispatched. Mustering up their courage, they rushed Vtan, bellowing oaths of loyalty to the High-Chieftain. Vtan snarled as he charged forward to accept their challenge, sword flashing.

Not far away, Zerat and the other Elites had pitched into the thick of the Brute defenders, brawling with them hand to hand. The fighting was savage. One of the Sangheili toppled lifelessly to the deck, a spear buried in his throat. Zerat's fists were a blur as they parried and jabbed. One of the Brutes had the temerity to take the Specialist on hand to hand, and the Sangheili rewarded him his just dessert. With a series of calculated twists and snapping grapples, the Elite broke every bone in his opponent's body. A final stamping hoof across the Brute's windpipe settled the matter.

It was all happening so quickly, Perry was astounded at his allies' tremendous capacity for violence.

Murphy advanced steadily toward one of the Brutes, unloading round after round into the monstrous alien. It was easily double his size, but the commando didn't flinch, gun bucking against his chest plate as he rushed forward. When the Jiral'ja collapsed, shields smouldering and armour buckled, Murphy smoothly drew his side-arm and finished him with an efficient double-tap.

"Move, move, move!" he shouted, pointing to a hatch on the far end of the deck, "Alpha Team, inside!"

A gloved hand slapped Perry over the back of the head.

"Come on!" Fenton scolded, raising his riot gun and slamming a shell into an oncoming Brute, catching it in the shoulder and spinning it to the ground. "You're with the Sergeant, get moving!"

There was a snarling grunt from behind them and Fenton abruptly dived to the floor, pulling Perry with him. A spear hummed through the air above them, the Jiral'ja guard snarling at its thwarted lunge.

The _Jiral'ja _loomed over them, blotting out the sun. It planted a meaty boot across Fenton's chest, pinning him in place. It raised its spear to strike.

Corporal Watanabe's riot gun all but deafened them as she rushed the Brute from the side, the assault smashing the beast back a few staggering steps toward the edge of the deck. Her helmet filter issued an aggressive snarl as she swiped the gun across the Brute's face. Overbalanced, the Brute's foot slipped, sending the beast clean off the side of the Scarab, limbs flailing as he plummeted to the distant ground below.

"On your feet, Flyboy!" Watanabe snapped, laying down a blanket of cover fire, "Go!"

Perry clambered to his feet, ducking low as a disembodied Brute head flew through the air before him Five of the ODST slid past the brawling aliens, gathering at one of the hatches in sleek unison.

"It's not opening!" one of them shouted, fiddling with the activation rune.

"Stack on me!" Murphy ordered, his hand flashing as ordered his team into position. "Blow it!"

A detonation charge was slapped in place, and the team crouched low, flinching away in anticipation. There was a gout of smoke and fire as the hatch blew inward with a muffled thump. The smoke hadn't even settled when Murphy ploughed in, knees bent, riot gun blazing.

The rest of the team dived in after him, weapons hunting for targets.

Perry hurried in after them, far less smoothly, pistol raised and teeth gritted.

* * *

Ferikus frowned as warning runes blinked across his control panel.

"High-Chieftain," he blinked in astonishment, "Reports coming in from the upper floor security team. We have been boarded!"

Torikus rose to his feet, nostrils flaring in rage.

"How dare they!" he raged, "Dispatch all units to engage them - they must not be allowed to penetrate the bridge!"

* * *

"The Sangheili Shipmaster, he's here! He's-"

The _Jiral'ja_ never got a chance to finish his report. The twinned points of an energy sword burst forth from his chest, lifting him up off the ground.

Vtan, eyes narrowed in hatred, twisted his sword free and let the guard's body flop to the ground.

The top deck was littered with the corpses of Jiralhanae guards, their ceremonial weapons now in the hands of their Sangheili attackers. The Brutes had fought well, and four of the Sangheili had given their lives in the initial skirmish.

Fenton hurried over to the Shipmaster.

"That's the last of them." he said, "But they're going to be flooding up here any moment."

"Let them come," Vtan nodded, "I have not yet taken my fill of vengeance."

As if on cue, another hatch opened. This time a fully armed Jiralhanae fire team burst forth, their carbines spitting. One of the ODST cried out as a bolt caught him in the chest, smacking him off his feet. The commandos lobbed a flurry of grenades in return, and - weapons firing - the battle for the top deck began in earnest.

Vtan hauled one of the dead Brutes off his feet, using the guard's immense bulk as a meat shield. It juddered as the bolts chopped deep into the thick flesh. With his free hand, he calmly activated his Battle Net.

"Murphy-Human, what is your status?"

Murphy had to shout to be heard over the blaring gunfire.

"We're pinned down!" he shouted, swinging out of cover to blast at a charging Jackal phalanx. The chittering aliens shrieked as the force of the riot-gun blew them off their feet, opening them up to a second salvo, which chopped into them like an axe through firewood.

"Christ, they've got a small army down here!"

"Do you require assistance?"

There was a pause as Murphy's riot gun deafened the line.

"Would be handy, yeah!"

Perry blazed away with his sidearm, and took considerable satisfaction from the Brute which was knocked out from cover at the end of the sloping access corridor. Caught in the open, it was blown apart by a deluge of riot gun shells.

The interior of the Scarab was labyrinthine in comparison to the regular Type 47's. Instead of a relatively straightforward downward hatch and an exposed power core, this beast was a fully contained structure, complex with a twisting maze of corridors and junctions. A self-contained fortress, it even had a small barracks, from the looks of things. Right now, Bravo Team were trapped, ducking down against the sloping alcoves, which served as the only available cover.

They were hard-pressed, being attacked by guards surging up from the throne room on one end, and by another Brute fire team emerging from a corridor directly parallel to their own. Already, one of the ODST lay crumpled on the deck, armour perforated by concerted Ripper rounds.

Murphy thumbed a grenade, flinging it around the corner. It detonated with a low thud, and for a moment the Brute's fire slackened, as their shields fizzled and spat through the smoke.

It was now or never.

"On me, on me!" Murphy exploded from cover, riot-gun belching out. It was a Krauser 303, a bull-pup design intended precisely for enclosed combat environments such as these. Whether or not it had been designed with suicidal charges in mind was another matter entirely, but Murphy figured there was no time like the present to field test it.

Masters of storm clearance, the ODST's surged through the settling smoke, closing to point blank range with the Brute defenders. Shell-shocked from the initial grenade blast, the Brutes only recovered when it was too late. _Jiral'ja_ or not, their armour proved little match for three semi-automatic 303's opening up at point blank range. By the time Murphy's ammo canister spun empty, the base end of the sloping corridor was awash with slick alien blood and studded with fragments of shredded armour.

Even as they consolidated in the Brute's former position, more Ripper fire hissed down the corridor at them from the way they came. The ODST's separated, crouching by the walls and returning fire.

Murphy tried the door.

"Shite, it's locked!" the sergeant panicked.

"Great," Perry winced, flinching into his headset as a needle hissed by his ear, "Now we're really pinned. Shipmaster, we could use a hand down here!"

Perry's radio crackled up from his wrist-com.

"Stand by, Friend Perry, assistance is on its way."

* * *

Zerat stalked quickly through the Brute ship, slipping through the pooled shadows of the side corridors. He moved with a delicacy that belied his size, the stealth shroud making him all but invisible as he melted into the murky, smoke filled corridor. An honour guard spear was held low in his hand, and he kept his posture stooped to lessen his profile.

Covenant Loyalists hurried to and fro, attempting to react to the conflicting reports hissing through their Battle Net. Zerat used this to his advantage, anticipating their movements and evading accordingly.

Murphy's warriors had pushed deep into the Scarab, despite the confusing layout, but there was only so much they could do alone.

They were, after all, only Human.

Eventually, he reached the junction where the Humans were trapped. There were was a full squad of Jiralhanae shock troops lining the corridor before him, firing down toward the beleaguered Humans. They carried a mixture of carbines and those curious glove-like weapons, unique to the _Jiral'ja_. They were well disciplined Jiralhanae, and were calmly grunting instructions to one another.

_A splendid challenge_, Zerat thought.

He drew back his arm and threw the spear in his hand like a lance. It was a perfect cast. It arced through the air like a javelin, its sleek design only lending to its grace. The resulting lethality was no less impressive: it punched clean through the temple of the nearest _Jiral'ja_, who managed a surprised gasp before he died. Storming forward, Zerat's riot-gun finished the rest.

He dropped his stealth shroud, standing over a carpet of dead Brutes and spent shell casings. The sniper turned the Human weapon over in his hands, admiring its handiwork with a critic's eye.

"Definitely simplistic." he concluded, before dropping it atop the fallen Brutes.

Murphy's visor peeked out from behind the heaped Brute corpses he'd been using as cover.

"Nice timing."

"I feel it is beneficial to be punctual in all things." Zerat agreed, retrieving his spear with a tug, before striding down to inspect the door.

"This door is sealed, there shall be more progress made here without the proper command authorisation."

Zerat activated the Sangheili Battle Net.

"Shipmaster, this is Zerat. The Humans are secure but bridge is sealed. The door design looks similar to that of a ship's bulkhead."

"Then there shall be no progress made there." came the response, "Stand by."

"You do not wish for us to find an alternative entrance?" Zerat frowned, incredulous.

"Far from it, brave Zerat," Vtan replied. "I believe I have already found it."

* * *

Vtan knelt over the body of a fallen Jiralhanae, frowning as he made a series of adjustments to the Brute's communicator, mimicking those adjustments to his own Battle Net. A re-wiring here, an alteration there, it was a delicate process. With a warbling blurt of static, the growling tones of Jiralhanae speech filtered out through his headset.

Ah, there.

"This is Shipmaster Vtan 'Arume of the _Pride of Sanghelios_, proud and loyal servant of the High Council." he began, "Hear me now and listen, Jiralhanae dogs."

"I am aboard your vessel. I am alone, and I seek vengeance for my people. I challenge you for possession of not only this vessel, but also rule of this entire planet. A Trial of Command, to be settled by single combat. Send forth your greatest warrior. May our skill in battle decide this once and for all."

Vtan twitched his mandibles in amusement.

"Or perhaps you would rather cower behind your blast doors."

Vtan let the dead Brute fall to the ground, severing the connection with the Covenant Battle Net. He switched back to the command frequency shared by the Humans and Sangheili alike.

"Stand by to assault."

* * *

The command deck was silent. All eyes were on Torikus, and the High-Chieftain felt their gaze all too keenly. The Sangheili's transmission had gone out across the entire Command Net. Every pack leader within a two mile radius had heard it.

"The Heretic has spirit, I will grant him that much." Torikus mused, rising to his feet.

"Fetch me the _Fist of Origar_. I shall see this matter finished personally."

Two Honour Guards moved forward, the ornate weapon borne on heavy pillows of fine satin. They bowed low as they presented it. Ferikus, the most senior officer on the bridge next to the High-Chieftain himself, rose to his feet, incredulous.

"High-Chieftain," Ferikus protested, "You truly do not believe the Sangheili is alone, do you?"

"Of course not. I am no fool." Torikus replied, "I know full well that he simply wishes to draw me into an ambush, just as I know that to refuse his challenge is to shame me before my entire army."

"And yet you shall go anyway?"

"Do you think I lack courage, Ferikus?" Torikus asked, eyes hooded, "Or that I lack the power to crush these insects beneath my boot?"

"No, High-Chieftain, I simply-"

"Then do ask I ask, fool. Reinforce the bridge; I shall return presently."

The High Chieftain accepted his helmet from another Honour Guard, lowering it over his head. It was a sloping crimson head-crest, which stretched back like a peacock's tail. The faceplate of the helmet was wrought in black, and decorated a golden trim that circled the eye-sockets. Crimson rubies and emerald gem-stones lined the cheekbones and studded the top-plate of the crest, winking as they caught the light.

His naked eyes glared out from beneath the helmet, nostrils flaring as he trembled for combat.

His ceremonial wrist guards were a cruel, pitiless visage, carved to resemble the top half of a Jiralhanae skull. Indeed, some said they were carved from the bones of the High-Chieftain's rivals.

A mixture of the brutal and the ostentatious, Torikus was a fearsome sight to behold.

The Honour Guard attached the wires leading from the base of the helm to the top of Torikus' spine. His shield system hummed into life, and with a powerful flex of his armoured fist the in-built disruption field activated, encapsulating him in blinding white light. So long as it stood, no projectile could harm him, be it plasma-based or otherwise.

Grunting with satisfaction, Torikus dropped his disruption field. A limited resource, he wished to save it for the coming battle. He turned and reverently received his Gravity Hammer from his waiting body guards.

The hammer was forged from the same materials used to make his armour, though ornate gold lettering ran down its length. Trailing from the base of the weapon was a wrinkled clump of blood-dyed faith parchment, each declaring the name of the three Hierarchs: Mercy, Regret, Truth.

There was a fourth piece of scroll work; a blunt, harsh symbol declaring his own personal belief - Power.

Those assembled on the bridge knelt before him, awed by the sight of their leader armed for war. He was a god to them, all powerful and unquestionable. It had been years since Torikus had taken to the field personally, and - after a week of set back after set back - a timely reminder of his sheer presence, of his dreadful majesty.

Torikus strode down from the dais where the grav-throne hovered, his every footfall reverberating throughout the bridge. A giant of a Jiralhanae, he dwarfed even the mighty Honour Guard, who - with their sloping head crests and double-ended spears, were terrifying in and of themselves.

"Open the blast doors, and prepare the service elevator." he boomed, his voice broadcasting openly across all channels of the Battle Net.

"Let the Sangheili Shipmaster know that Torikus himself has come. Let him know that death is at hand."

* * *

Vtan sat calmly on the tortured deck, feet folded beneath him. His eyes were closed, and his Energy Sword lay inert. To Fenton's men, taking cover by a commandeered plasma turret, it seemed surreal to be so calm at so crucial a time. The commando went to open his mouth, but a stern look from Zerat silenced the question on his lips.

"Do not disturb the Shipmaster." one of the Elites said, "He is preparing himself for the task at hand."

Fenton nodded, suitably warned.

A central doorway on the highest spine of the Scarab cycled open, triple-locked seals hissing and rolling back with a clank of gears. Subtle it was not.

Fenton was a seasoned soldier. He had been in the ODST for ten years - a remarkable achievement considering the attrition rate inherent to their job description. The oldest member of the fire-team, he had logged the most combat hours of the squad, even exceeding that of Sergeant Murphy. Little phased him, to a point where Murphy had given him the nickname 'Mr. Emotional". Fenton never let himself get shocked, for to do so would be to compromise his keen tactical mind.

Even so, what stormed out next made the drop trooper gasp in horror.

It was the largest Brute he'd ever seen, easily a head taller than even Vtan. If the Brute's society ensured that only the largest and strongest took power, then surely this monster was an emperor. Shaking with fury, it stomped forward, hunched forward. Its slammed the pommel of the Gravity Hammer against the deck, announcing his presence with an altogether unnecessary bang.

"I have come seeking the heart of the Sangheili Shipmaster." the beast declared, eyes searching the deck , "Where is he?"

"He is here." Vtan replied, rising from where he knelt, his tone respectful as ever, "To whom do I speak?"

They regarded each other a moment. Vtan, seeming tall and proud despite his species' naturally stooped gait, and Torikus, feet planted, chest puffed out like some monstrous pigeon. Sizing each other up, assessing each other's strengths and weaknesses.

After a slight sneer of recognition, Torikus spoke.

"High-Chieftain Torikus, Shipmaster of the_ Implacable Duty_, Lord of all Covenant forces on the world, Faithful Servant of the Hierarchs, blessed-be."

"Very well," Vtan replied, inclining his head toward his opponent, "I am Vtan 'Arume, of the Clan 'Arume, Shipmaster of the _Pride of Sanghelios_, and I have come to end this conflict, through victory or death."

"Hah!" Torikus snorted "It shall end only with your spilt blood, Sangheili worm."

"We shall see." The Sangheili returned, eyes hooded behind his faceplate. He turned to the rest of his allies on the deck. "Leave us."

Without hesitation, the remaining Elites turned smoothly and quickly departed through one of the nearby access ports. Fenton had his orders, however, and it only after a calm nod of reassurance from the Shipmaster that he formed his squad up and made for the lower decks.

As he left, he heard the Sangheili's Energy Sword hiss to life and the Brute Chieftain roar a challenge.

Whatever was to happen here, one thing was clear.

This was personal.

* * *

The bridge of the Ubiquitous Triumph was accessed through a wide corridor that gently sloped down the centre of the Scarab's spine. Much like a yacht, the interior of the vessel was deceptively large. The arched ceiling rose up twelve feet above their heads, and a series of side alcoves all manner of banners and religious icons. The walls were decadent with Jiralhanae iconography: large spikes adorned the walls, jutting out menacingly - no doubt tusks harvested from some vicious predator borne from the Jiralhanae home world. In the centre of the corridor was a holo-projector, which presented a recording of the Prophet of Truth.

"There are those who said this day would never come," the rasping Hierarch crowed, "What are they to say now?"

A piercing stab of Zerat's spear answered him. The projector unit fizzled as it died, the image flickering and buzzing before it vanished with a final spurt of static.

Zerat had only just retrieved his spear when the Honour Guard attacked.

They swung down from the alcoves, emerging from concealed positions behind faith banners and from the murky recesses above. There were six of them, menacing in their elegant head-crests and curving pauldrons. Where the previous Jiral'ja guards had been using toothed spears wrought from metal, these were energy based blades, reminiscent of Vtan's Energy Sword. By the time their glowing armour revealed themselves to the Humans, it was too late. Their spears blurred as they hummed through the air, cutting into the surprised Sangheili and ODST armour like blowtorches through butter.

One of the ODST, Mendoza, raised his weapon to fire, only to watch in dismay as a descending blade sliced his riot-gun in half, taking most of his forearm with it. He barely had time to scream, as a return spin shortened his torso beneath the shoulders.

The Honour Guard stepped through the bloodied mist, intent on his next kill.

It was Perry who stood smack bang in the middle of the Brute's path. He swore, raising his pistol and emptying the remaining magazine. The Jiralhanae didn't even break his stride as he descended on the hapless pilot, a cruel smile on his lips.

Zerat stepped into view between the Human and the Brute, his metal spear raised in a defensive guard.

The Brute lashed his spear down across the raised shaft of the Sangheili's spear, sheering it in two. The blade carried straight through, but cut only air, as the Elite spun in under the Brute's guard. The first half of the spear entered the Honour Guard's throat. The second thumped deep into the base of its neck. Head barely hanging on by a thread, the Brute collapsed.

Zerat kicked the Brute's spear up into the air, snatching it up and darting forward to engage the rest of the Jiralhanae elite.

Murphy beat him to the punch, a vengeful display of disciplined fire from his unshipped Battle Rifle cutting one of the Brutes down. He worked with a ruthless proficiency, moving from target to target. One of the Brutes managed to close the distance, and the commando was forced to roll aside as the Honour Guard's spear arced toward him, gouging a bevy of sparks from the wall as it missed.

A trio of battle rifle shots cut under the cheekbone of the Brute's helmet. The Jiralhanae pitched forward, its corpse falling across its own spear.

Fenton's team swept into the room, scanning for additional targets. There were none, though the casualties inflicted upon the strike team had been severe. Only three of Zerat's Elites still stood, and one of those - a Minor Domo by the name of Ri'kar - was missing a hand. The wound was a cauterised stump, and he grunted his dissatisfaction as he examined the wound, more offended than hurt.

"Are you alright, Brother?" Zerat asked, de-activating his spear and stepping forward.

"Give me a weapon," Ri'kar snarled, "By the Old Ones, I can still fight!"

Murphy wordlessly handed him his riot-gun, which the Sangheili hefted like a pistol.

"Hmph, this shall suffice." the Sangheili grunted begrudgingly.

The ODST of Murphy's fire-team had not fared well in the past conflict. Aside from the Sergeant himself, only Watanabe had survived. Wordlessly she stripped the fallen of their ammunition, passing out their detonation charges and ammunition canisters. Already her wrist jangled with the dog-tags of her KIA squad-mates.

"ODST, ready to move." she reported, determined to avenge her allies.

Murphy nodded, acknowledging Fenton with a mock salute.

"Thanks for the assist - I take it the Shipmaster sent you?"

"Who else?" Fenton replied, shouldering his weapon, "He's tangling with the biggest Brute bastard I've ever seen up on the deck."

"A Chieftain?"

"From the size of him? Got to be."

"Then we must go to his aid!" crowed Ri'kar.

"No," Zerat shook his head, "The Shipmaster's purpose is clear, and so too is head for the bridge."

The specialist set off down the corridor, his words drifting in his wake.

"Ready yourselves, friends, the bridge lies ahead."

* * *

Fighting styles as contrasting as they were refined, the duel was a dizzying sight to behold.

Both duellists were masters of their respective disciplines, the very pinnacle of martial prowess. Their technique was flawless. Vtan, sleek and graceful, moved like a liquid tempest; striking in darting, daring slashes that tried to skip around his opponent's guard. The Shipmaster never uttered a sound as he attacked, completely focused, utterly disciplined.

Torikus was the opposite; movements slow and deliberate, almost ponderous in their lethality. He was rage and thunder, and his hammer shook the very ground beneath it as it swung in toward his opponent. He carried all the form of an Honour Guard, and reinforced it with the force of his monumental bulk. His Gravity Hammer swung and spun like a maddened halberd, before striking the deck with a jarring thump. It left smoking craters wherever it struck, and soon the already-scorched deck was pitted with a half-dozen such craters, leaving the air crackling with static electricity. Torikus' hair stood on end, lending an almost manic element to his already berserk appearance.

Adding to his rage was the fact that the Shipmaster was never standing still. It would only take one, decisive blow to finish this fight, and yet that blow failed to land. The Shipmaster relied wholly on his speed to stay alive, leaping forward with gravity-defying slashes before tumbling low into evasive rolls which carried him safely from the path of the oncoming Hammer.

The Sangheili would wait for the Jirlhanae to commit to a strike, choosing his moments carefully. Occasionally the Shipmaster's restrained precision would pay off, his sword tip striking against the High-Chieftain's exposed shoulder pauldron's and arm-guards, a cascade of crackling energy and scorched armour marking the areas where Vtan's attacks had bitten through Torikus' lumbering defence.

And yet, despite Vtan's tenacity, the odds were entirely in Torikus' favour, and becoming more so as the fight dragged on. The High-Chieftain, safe in his mobile fortress for the previous week, was fresh to the fight, and bore all the vitality of a newly-unleashed warrior upon his foe. Vtan was not, having spent the six days in test after test of relentless physical warfare. The speed and stamina his fighting style demanded was pushing the Shipmaster past breaking point, a point which was becoming all too evident. His muscles began to tire and his movements began to slow.

Make no mistake, this was no fair fight.

With a bellow of fury, Torikus struck.

The Gravity Hammer clove through the air, the atmosphere shimmering in its wake. Vtan leapt clear as it struck the ground, the impact pushing him back through the air. He landed in a smooth crouch, shields crackling as they struggled to reassert themselves. His chest heaved from the exertion. Sweat glistened across his hide.

Nostrils pumping, the giant rushed again. Vtan met him midway, sword flashing as its points slid around either side of the Hammer's shaft. Snapping his wrist to one side, Vtan diverted the attack into a dead-lock grapple. The sword flared and spat sparks into their eyes as it shrieked against the relentless pressure. The two combatants stood shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek. Torikus' fangs dripping down onto Vtan's faceplate.

The High-Chieftain's physical power far exceeded his own. Vtan's arm shook with the strain of diverting the High-Chieftain's strength. Vtan gripped his Sword Arm's wrist with his other hand, attempting to reinforce his hold. It was no use. Inexorably, his knees began to bend from the relentless pressure.

Slowly but surely, he was being overpowered.

"Pathetic weakling," sneered Torikus down at him, almost eye to eye with Vtan, "Already your limbs tremble before my might."

With a defiant snarl, Vtan smashed his angular helmet into Torikus' face, following up with a sweeping elbow that spun the High-Chieftain away from him, breaking the dead-lock.

The Chieftain's head-crest clattered to the deck as he tottered backward, regaining his balance.

"You shall find I still have some fight left in me, cur," Vtan panted, resuming his stance.

Nevertheless, the Shipmaster was forced to give ground once more, back-pedalling as he evaded two lateral swipes of the monstrous Hammer.

Step by step, inch by inch, he was being driven back toward the head of the Scarab. Beneath them, the final battle raged on, a cacophony of sound and death. Rockets and missiles spun through the air, blasting down countless warriors. Vtan was desperately running out of space.

Soon there would be nowhere left to run.

* * *

The door to the Throne Room folded into the walls and ceiling in three folding curves. Unlike Sangheili architecture, this was a large chrome design, resplendent with sharp folds of metal that were very much in keeping with the Jiralhanae aesthetic.

The second the door opened, a hailstorm of shots snapped out. Watanabe was caught in the stomach by a spike round, which folded her up but failed to fully penetrate her body armour. Ri'kar knelt before her, weathering the hailstorm of fire and shielding the commando with his shield system. Fenton quickly dragged his comrade back into cover.

"Concentrate your fire!" Ferikus brayed to the squad of Brutes holding the bridge, "We must repel them!"

The Brutes were taking cover behind their command stations, a half-dozen of them peering out from the recessed control wells which circled the central command dais. The Throne stood empty, and it was quickly blown apart by a volley of shots from the ODST. A catwalk above braced a clutch of Jackals, who peppered the oncoming raiders with a cascade of plasma shots. Private Sweeney collapsed, wounded where a trio of shots had clipped his shoulder.

There was no cover between the entrance and the control wells. Indeed, those caught in the open were quickly pushed back or killed outright, the weight of Covenant suppressive fire proving all too effective. The strike team ducked back to the relative safety of the entryway, taking cover by the thick frame which bracketed the door.

Ferikus slapped a new set of barbs into his Spiker, sending one of the Humans back into cover with a tight burst of fire.

An impasse had been reached. With neither side willing to expose themselves for too long, it seemed that the stalemate would continue indefinitely. That suited Ferikus fine: the Scarab was on auto-pilot, and would continue to decimate the Human army in its own time. Already, he could dimly hear the bleeping of the targeting computer as it sought to bring its overheated weapon systems back online. Within minutes, he could atomise the grounded Human vessel, and settle outcome of the battle single-handedly. He glanced at the display again. The runes were already pulsing a dull amber yellow, and growing greener with each passing moment.

By the time the High-Chieftain had returned from the upper deck to deal finish this rabble, it would already be over, and the glory would be his.

* * *

Vtan ducked as the Gravity Hammer swung over his head, then side-stepped as the Hammer's pommel came around, aimed to catch him off-balance. It was Torikus' surging elbow that he failed to dodge, the blow slapping him across the mandibles and punching him face-first to the deck.

Vtan crawled forward instinctively, falling from the main hull of the Scarab and onto the top of the _Ubiquitous Triumph's_ triple-Gorgon head. Torikus stood over him, watching as the Shipmaster crawled away to the centre of the middle head, rising shakily to his feet.

"You have fought well, Sangheili," Torikus mused, hopping down to the same level as his opponent. He swept at a trail of blood which trailed from his nostril, absently, "but it shall not save you."

The Shipmaster's vision swam, and he shook his head as he blinked it clear. He could taste blood on his mandibles, but noted with satisfaction that the Brute was similarly bloodied. The exertion of wielding the mighty hammer had left Torikus similarly out of breath. The Brute's forceful combat style was also evidently taking its toll.

Torikus adjusted the grip on his Hammer and waded forward, stepping into each of his attacks. Vtan waited for one of the blows to sweep past and lunged, kicking out at the shaft of the Hammer and arcing his sword toward Torikus. The High-Chieftain's energy shield flared a blinding white as disruption field pulsed into life. The sword glanced harmlessly away as Torikus caught the blow on his skull-faced wrist guard.

With a guttural chuckle he parrying Vtan's weapon aside, and following up with a crunching head butt of his own.

Vtan flew back to the ground, rolling and tumbling awkwardly, his sword snapping off. His hands scrambled for purchase as he slid down the sloping rim of the Scarab's head, but to no avail.

Vtan tumbled over the edge, disappearing from Torikus' view altogether.

* * *

Murphy 's burst ripped half of the Jackal's head clean off.

"Got him!" he exclaimed, ducking back as a vengeful hail of needles screeched through the opening.

The Jackals overhead were all dead, but so too were most of his team. Watanabe was slumped wounded in the corner, alongside Sweeney and one of the Elites, who had been concussed by a grenade blast. Zerat, once a proud sniper, was having trouble hitting anything with an unfamiliar firearm, unused to the distorted depth perception offered by his single eye.

Most of the others were out of ammunition, having expended it all in the chaotic standoff that had kept them trapped here for almost ten minutes - almost a lifetime on the battlefield.

"Anyone else get the feeling that this isn't going according to plan?" Perry shouted over the din, leaning out and squeezing off a round or two with a recently-acquired BR-55. There were plenty of them lying on the ground.

"Any more moral boosting speeches like that and I'll shoot you myself." Murphy warned.

"Just get me to that control station!" Perry replied, "I don't care how!"

Zerat flung his Human sidearm aside, frustrated at his inability to hit anything.

"Enough of this!" he declared, "We shall do this like they did in olden times!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Perry.

"I think he means the old-fashioned way " Murphy translated, "Get ready!"

"For what-"

Perry's questioned was answered for him, as every single raider, wounded or otherwise, launched themselves into a gap, weapons blazing.

The charge was suicidal heroism. By some miracle, they crossed the opening, albeit with tremendous hardship. Ri'kar was knocked off his feet by a crimson plasma bolt, shields collapsing. Murphy's legendary Irish luck ran out, and he was cut down halfway by Ferikus himself. The ODST dropped without a sound. Fenton closed to point blank range with the senior Brute, before getting swatted aside like a rag-doll, ribs shattered. He tumbled to the deck and lay still.

The raiders fell in droves, but they did it. They closed the gap. Zerat was amongst the Brutes in the control wells, his spear wreaking havoc. Perry held his own, shooting from the hip with his last clip. That any of his shots managed to hit anything was more a result of the weapon's superior handling than his own accuracy, but hit they did, and Ferikus was knocked to the ground, armour fizzling.

Silence fell across the bridge, broken only by the groans of the wounded. Only Perry and Zerat were left standing.

They stood together at the command console. It was a sweeping display of churning runes and pulsing information, but Zerat quickly made sense of it.

"What is it you require from me, Perry-Human?"

"Seal the door - we don't want any of those bastards coming up behind us!"

"It shall be as you ask."

He pressed a single button. The door whirred shut, locking and triple locking itself from any would-be defenders.

Safe at last, he got to work.

Perry scanned the controls, mind whirling. The language was different, and symbols alien in the most literal sense of the word, but the mechanics themselves were fairly intuitive. UNSC personnel were regularly schooled in basic Covenant Hieroglyphics, precisely for situations such as these.

If only his memory wasn't so rusty.

"Zerat, you're going to have to help me on this…" he said, "Get ready to translate."

"Very well."

The two of them pored over the controls, utterly absorbed as the sniper helped the pilot take control of the Might Scarab.

Behind them, forgotten in the clustered bodies which choked the control well, Ferikus stirred.

* * *

Torikus strode forward, uttering another bellyful chortle of amusement. He spread his arms wide, his armour still glistening brightly as the disruptor field glowed around him.

"Very good!" he applauded raucously, "Very good indeed! What great sport you are proving, Sangheili - but I am invincible, and you are nothing!"

The Sangheili Shipmaster clung tenaciously to the front of the Scarab, legs dangling before the massive energy projector that could vaporise him in an instant. He had used his blade to stab deep into the hull, arresting his fall at the last second. Molten sparks bubbled down from where the sword had chewed into the hull, dribbling across his fore-arm and scalding his skin.

With a mournful flare of energy, Vtan's energy shield gave out.

"That is an awfully long drop, Shipmaster," Torikus remarked, reaching down to clench Vtan's wrist in a vice-like grip. "Here, let me help you."

The Sangheili hissed in pain, releasing the Energy Sword's activation grip as he was carried up into the air. The sword snapped off as the pressure on it slackened. Torikus dangled Vtan before him like a struggling fish, cocking his head to one side in mock-curiosity.

"Does it hurt, Shipmaster?" Torikus asked, squeezing harder. Vtan's wrist broke with a snap. "Does it really?"

Torikus laughed, dismissively hurling Vtan onto the deck behind him. He brought a fierce boot down upon Vtan's sword hand, grinding the bones with a twist of his foot. Vtan howled. Torikus stood back, smirking down at the wounded Elite. He was enjoying this immensely. The Elite began to crawl backward, trying to get distance between himself and Torikus. His back brushed up against the joint where the Scarab's neck met its torso, and he knew his time was at an end. Rukth's final request would go unfulfilled.

The High-Chieftain took his time as he closed the distance, scowling down at his battered opponent. Slowly but surely his disruptor field faded, but he didn't care: there would be no need for it now.

"You Sangheili, you're all alike. Boastful of your honour and your martial pride, you've forgotten what truly makes a warrior. It isn't your discipline, or the pack-mate at your side. It's one, simple thing…"

Torikus raised the Hammer above his head, ready to smite his foe.

"…a killer's heart."

* * *

Abelev's cigar was barely a stub now. Their shells had all been expended, and they had committed all of their forces to a full on charge. Toe to toe, the Brutes would win in open field. That much was certain. He slumped back in his chair, defeated.

They had nothing left to give.

The Scarab's main projector's cycled open again, the amber projector rings beginning to churn an ominous, pulsating green.

Abelev's fingers tightened on the arm-wrest. Amanda hugged Sarah close, squeezing her eyes shut.

Then the Scarab abruptly ducked its head, freezing to a halt.

* * *

"Right, there we go." said Perry, "That's the auto-pilot offline. Let's take this for a spin."

"A spin?" Zerat frowned, confused. "But the Scarab, it does not rotate…"

"A turn of phrase."

"Your obsession with revolving concerns me."

"Well be concerned then," Perry snapped, distracted, "Now help me see if I can bring these weapons online."

* * *

As the Scarab jerked about, Vtan pounced forward, taking advantage of the overbalanced Chieftain. It was a graceless tackle, but the two of them crashed to the deck in a tangle of limbs, sliding forward to the edge of the Scarab's head. Torikus' head teetered over the edge.

Vtan's good hand closed around Torikus' throat, which was too thick for even Vtan's long fingers to fully encircle. Only his immense rage allowed him to pin the monstrous brute down.

"You are wrong, Jiralhanae." Vtan tightened the grip on Chieftain's throat tighter, mandibles locked together in icy rage, eyes boring down into Torikus', "It is precisely because of the friends at my side that I shall see victory!"

"Insect!" Torikus rasped past strangled breaths, "We are the Covenant- rulers of all - Chosen Ones - I walk… the Path-"

"No longer." Vtan finished coldly, pressing his mangled sword hand under Torikus' jaw. "In the memory of my Fallen Brothers, and of the High Council cruelly-betrayed, I sentence you to death."

The Shipmaster's bones ground together around the sword's activation grip.

The blade flared to life, entering Torikus' jaw, spearing up through the roof of the mouth and emerging from the Chieftain's eye sockets. The tips of the energy blade spiked out from where Torikus' hateful eyes had been. Smoke boiled outwards from the High-Chieftain's snarling mouth, pouring forth in thick ropes of stinking fire.

Torikus gurgled, convulsed, then died.

Vtan rose to his feet, hauling Torikus' body up by the collar of his armour. With a resounding yell, Vtan cast the broken corpse from the front of the Scarab, righteous fury pumping through his veins. The body twisted gracefully through the air, before meeting the distant tarmac with a meaty smack.

Throwing his head back, Vtan howled in triumph.

* * *

The Jiralhanae host continued to charge, heedless of their leader's demise.

They were still charging when the Scarab opened fire on them.

All three of its energy projectors opened one after another, columns of jade fire searing pitted trenches across the hardpan. Brutes were slain in their thousands as the beams raked back and forth, a rolling wall of death.

Zerat's voice spilled out from the Ubiquitous Triumph's external speaker's.

"Run and hide, you dogs! Run and hide!"

The Scarab stomped back and forth, crushing and pulping any Brutes hapless enough to be caught underfoot.

The desired result was achieved. The Covenant army broke and ran, screaming in terror as they fled the city into the desert beyond.

* * *

Perry sat back from the controls, watching the retreating Brute army flee in witless panic. They couldn't remove the smile from his face with a sledge hammer. Zerat took the controls, comfortable with the basics now that Perry had provided ample demonstration.

There was a click as a Spiker was placed at the base of Perry's skull.

"You should have finished what your started, Human." Ferikus snarled.

There was a deafening bang as a BR-55 opened up at close range.

Ferikus went down without a sound, the back of his head removed.

"You should have fired first." Murphy countered, laying back and wincing as he pulled himself to his feet.

He caught Zerat and Perry gawking at him in surprise.

"What?" he asked, pulling a spike from his breastplate, "Did you honestly think I'd let myself get killed off in the last fight?"

* * *

They had won, but at tremendous cost.

It was a Pyrrhic victory. Of the one point two million colonists who took up arms in the Siege of Horizon, a pitiful seven thousand remained. Hundreds more would die from sickness and infection in the coming weeks, medical supplies having been long since spent. Never had the futility of war been so comprehensively demonstrated than in those dark days after the war.

Their efforts were not without some gain, however. As the main fighting subsided, the surviving non-combatants emerged from their shelters, eager to began rebuilding their shattered home. That so many of them had escaped death was a testament to the bravery of the defenders, who had surely died so that many others could live.

This did not mean that hostilities ended outright, however. For war is a sloppy business, and - though easily started - it is seldom quick to end.

The routed Jiralhanae forces, bereft of supplies, food and ammunition, began to die off in the surrounding trench-network encircling the city, which the Human army had been too exhausted to contest. The Kig-Yar, incensed at having been led into a doomed enterprise, with no fiscal gain in sight, stole what few transports remained and fled the system, leaving the Brutes with little to do but slowly starve to death. Reports speaking of internecine warfare between various factions within the Covenant army became commonplace. Again, this only served to highlight the Brute's greatest weakness: their own snivelling ambition.

When three Sangheili cruisers made the transition from Slipspace, two months later, they found naught but small pockets of Covenant Loyalists still alive, wasted wretches who squabbled over the bones of their fallen comrades, desperate for something, anything to eat. Sangheili Rangers, coupled with Separatist forces operating from the ground, mopped them in up in relatively short order.

Humanity played no part in those brief battles.

* * *

They were assembled outside the Northern Gate, basking in the half-light of the dusk's setting sun.

Every single survivor of the colony, every soldier, every colonist, every man, woman and child - they all arrayed themselves in a massive line before the Northern Crater. Many held back tears, holding their loved ones as they wept.

An endless field of crudely hewn grave posts surrounded the city; MA5H assault rifles adorned with cracked helmets and worn leather boots tied around the top. In time these would become proper gravestones, but the war was too recent, the wounds too raw. The shields of the two fallen Mgalekgolo had been planted together, side by side, and been lovingly decorated with paint Sarah had managed to salvage from the ruins.

A Covenant Cruiser hung in the sky overhead, grav-lift teeming with activity as Separatist security teams returned to the waiting vessel.

In the distance, standing guard at the Southern Gate, the outline of the _Ubiquitous Triumph_ stood lonely and silent; a watchful sentinel over a city it had once so nearly destroyed.

Before the base of the craft stood a thousand Sangheili, an honour guard sent down in recognition of the Human's fighting spirit. Vtan's own crew stood apart from them, just before the Human crowd. For months they would remain the object of suspicion amongst their peers, but ultimately their loyalty to Sanghelios was never held in doubt.

Amanda stepped forward from the throng of survivors, approaching Vtan and his surviving Sangheil, of whom there were a mere five. Zerat and Ri'kar stood back with the others, clearly uncomfortable at all this pomp and ceremony. Try as they might, however, they could not escape a lingering sense of bittersweet affection for their Human hosts. They had gotten used to their hospitality, and - as a species - farewells were not their strong suit.

A select line of Humans, stood before Vtan 'Arume, bathed in the soft blue light that shimmered at the grav-lift's mouth. The towering Shipmaster, his armour scorched and battered, remained unbroken, as he regarded them each in turn.

His first words were for Amanda, who spoke first.

"You're leaving?" Amanda asked.

"The battle is won, Administrator." Vtan replied, "We have imposed upon your people long enough."

"Imposed?" she laughed, "I would not be standing here were it not for you and your warriors."

She squeezed Sarah's shoulder, who beamed up happily from her side. "Nor would my daughter."

"Then it brings me some satisfaction to know that so many deaths were not in vain." Vtan nodded, pleased.

The Shipmaster moved on to Major Abelev, who stood with Murphy, Fenton and the surviving ODST - all of whom were either plastered in medical foam or confined to stretchers, pending their recovery.

"Hell of a job, Shipmaster." Abelev stepped forward, taking a bemused Vtan's bandaged hand and pumping it fiercely, "One hell of a job indeed."

Vtan's mandibles twitched mischievously.

"I would say the same to you, Major. Your tactical gift insight is exceptional… for a Human."

The crowd laughed as they caught the smile in Vtan's words; a well of affection reached out toward the Shipmaster.

They saluted one another; Abelev managing to hold his quaking hand still, Vtan folding his fist across his breastplate.

"I suppose we can't convince you to stay and clean up?" Murphy asked, grinning toothily.

Vtan shook his head.

"Alas, we cannot stay any longer. The Arbiter has called for us, and will have need of us in the struggle ahead. While Sangheili warriors still breathe, the False-Covenant cannot be allowed to survive."

"Then we bid you farewell, Shipmaster." Amanda shook his hand, her hand engulfed in his, "May our paths meet again."

"Under more pleasant circumstances, let's hope." Murphy chipped in.

"Indeed." Vtan's mandibles twitched.

Vtan stopped before one person. David Perry, standing straighter, taller, more confident than when they had first met. More battered too, judging by the ragged, bushy beard which bristled on his chin. Standing before him, having survived where so many others had not, Perry something more than just the enemy of his enemy.

He had become a respected friend. A warrior. A Brother.

"You saved my life when you commandeered that Scarab, friend Perry." Vtan reached out, planting a hand on the pilot's shoulder and giving it a farewell shake. "I shall not forget you."

"Likewise, Chief." Perry smiled humbly. He snapped a salute. To his shock, all of the assembled Elites - the assembled honour guard included - returned it.

Vtan stood back a few paces, activating his Battle Net. His voice washed out from the Cruiser's speakers, reaching everyone across the entire city.

"We shall send help, friends." Vtan promised, "Within weeks, Human vessels shall be here to aid you. On that, you have my word."

With that, Vtan's Elites stood back, snapping a decent imitation of a UNSC salute.

The Humans returned the Sangheili's gesture, folding their fists over their chests.

The Humans erupted in a cheer. Vtan bowed, then spun on his heel, leading his warriors back into the Grav Lift. The honour guard followed suit, maintaining perfect formation as they were swept into the Grav Lift's soft humming light. They rose up into the belly of the Cruiser, and were gone.

Moments later, the Sangheili vessels turned, ponderous and slow, then vanished in a wink of light, departing for destinations unknown.

Sarah stood there for a long while, a thoughtful smile on her face. Amanda looked down at her.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Sarah beamed up at her mother, her eyes shone with excitement.

"That was some adventure!"


	31. Epilogue: The Ageless Guardian

**Epilogue:**

_"It was a time of conflict, of unstinting tyranny and tragic loss. And heroes…"_

- Fleetmaster Vtan 'Arume, "Reflections on the Crassus Campaign - A History."

* * *

Fifty years later, Horizon is left barren, a monument to those who had fallen. The streets no longer ring with the sound of gunfire, or the screams of the dying.

A statue, carved by the renowned artist Sarah Jennings herself, commemorates the heroes who took a stand and made the ultimate sacrifice. The statute is of a Sangheili, a long-running scar running across his face, a spear in his hand. His feet are planted astride the ruins of the Northern Gate, where so many had given their lives. His head, tilted upward in defiance, is confident in his own immortality. His hand beckons up towards the stars, as though daring all would-be tyrants and killers to come, and try their hands again.

Inscribed on the base of the plinth is a message, carved in the script of the Sangheili people.

A translation is provided underneath.

It reads:

_"Go, passer-by, and tell the universe_

_That we perished in the cause,_

_Faithful to our orders."_

* * *

**After the conflict:**

Flight Officer David Perry left the Navy service soon after Earth-based hostilities ended, where he went on to set up his own shipping company, the now famous Zuka Express. He eventually married Elaina "Strongarm" Santos, and had two children, both of whom later enlisted in UNSC Navy.

Administrator Amanda Jennings became a notable politician, and a representative for the Displaced Persons Alliance, a prominent political faction in the aftermath of the war. A keen humanitarian and a vocal spokesperson for Human-Sangheili cooperation, some of her speeches on the subject are popular among political-science students, even to this day.

Sarah Jennings, famous across the galaxy for her vivid paintings, children's stories and detailed histories in equal measure, went on to publish a number of illustrated accounts of the Human-Covenant War, including "Spartans: Turning the Tide", "Mgalekgolo and Me: An Illustrated Fable", and "The Crassus Campaign - A History", upon which the majority of this account is based. All of these works are available at your local library.

Staff Sergeant Brendan Murphy was decorated with the UNSC Medal of Honour in recognition for his actions in the defence of the colony, and continued to serve in the armed forces until his retirement in 2586. A highly decorated officer, he and his fire team fought in a number of notable conflicts after the Crassus Campaign, including the notorious incident involving Project ROGUE on Outpost DR-17, the details of which remain strictly classified, pending ONI approval [FURTHER INFO REDACTED BY REQUEST].

Major Gregor Abelev collapsed soon after rescue arrived for the people of Crassus, his constitution having been irreparably damaged through an unprecedented number of combat stimulants. Confined to a hospital bed for much of his declining years, he continued to play an active role in military affairs, lecturing extensively on his war-time experiences.

After his death in 2571, Senator Jennings and the Horizon Veteran's Committee had a plaque dedicated to his memory. It, alongside his shotgun, _Old Reliable_, is on display in the Interstellar War Museum in Melbourne, Australia.

Bralterakus became a ruthless warlord for one of the ascending Hierarchs, the Prophet of Succession. His war fleets and daring raids continued to plague mankind for many years, leading well into the late 2560's and culminating in the Battle of Orion VI.

As for Vtan 'Arume and his surviving Elites, well, that's another tale entirely…


End file.
